


Slowest of Growths

by fanficology



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Arranged Marriage, Developing Relationship, F/M, Mystery, Victorian
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-03-07
Updated: 2015-01-21
Packaged: 2017-12-04 14:59:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712030
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fanficology/pseuds/fanficology
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock never asked for this.  Then again, neither did his wife.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

 

            “Despite the best efforts of Sherlock Holmes’ elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, to repair his family’s financial equilibrium upon the death of their father, forces-both political and natural- conspired them, leaving the viscountcy close to bankruptcy.   The family and their tenants needed a large and quick infusion of capital into the family’s lands and coffers.  The surest and quickest way to alleviate their problems was simple: one of the brothers must marry[…]”

 

            “[…]But the might of the British peerage was weakening.  Heiresses were thin on the ground and aristocratic heiresses were even rarer.  A modern minded man for his era, Mycroft Holmes found a bride, not for himself but for his younger brother, in the emerging and wealthy mercantile class.  Lawrence Hooper was a millionaire even in the 19th century due to his savvy investing, cotton speculation, and the demand for his company’s innovative train engines.  More importantly, Lawrence Hooper had an unwed daughter: Mary. […]”

 

Excerpt from _Forensics’ Father:  Biography of Sherlock Holmes, 10 th  Viscount Brackley _by Percival Higgins.

 

 January 1879          

 

            “Mrs. Hudson, has my husband returned yet?”

 

            A grimace flittered across her housekeeper’s face as she turned to face her.  “No, ma’am he hasn’t.”

 

            Mrs. Holmes placed her embroidery aside.  “Has he or Dr. Watson sent a note along?”

 

            It was her husband’s birthday today and she had asked the cook to make his favorite meal to celebrate.   Though he had remarked the day before that ‘it was senseless to mark the day of one’s birth for it was no great accomplishment on my part’ she still thought the occasion deserved some recognition.  She told him about the dinner menu earlier that morning as he sat on the divan, waving his arms about and mumbling about bands.  After three minutes of no acknowledgment, she had slipped away, hoping he had heard her. 

 

            “No ma’am, he hasn’t.”  Molly felt a stab of pity at the echo of shame in Mrs. Hudson’s voice.  Mrs. Hudson seemed to take Sherlock’s neglect of her personally.   She often heard her mutter under her breath about ‘that sweet and stupid boy.’  

 

            “I see.”  Molly glanced at the clock and sighed.  “Could you ask Annie to make up a plate for me and bring it here?  No need to stand on ceremony if I am the only one.  Feel free to distribute the food to the rest of the help if they so desire.”

 

            “Yes ma’am.”

 

            “Oh and Mrs. Hudson?”  Mrs. Holmes called the older woman back.  “Please set aside a portion for my husband so he may have something to eat when he returns.”

 

            “Of course Mrs. Holmes.”

 

            Molly grimaced at the title.  She sometimes wished she had the courage to ask if the kind housekeeper would call her by her Christian name.  She picked up her embroidery and viciously continued her work.  

 

            Part of her felt it was a relief to not have dinner with her husband.  Not have to face him and his disdain of her.  As if she wasn’t a victim in this farcical marriage concocted by his brother and her father as well.  At nine and twenty she had successfully avoided the trap of marriage for ten years.  She had plans that did not involve marriage. 

 

            “Blast,” Molly muttered as she missed her targeted area and began to slowly work the thread out before trying again.  This was the last thing she wanted.  For someone who boasted so loudly of his own powers of observation, one would think he would see her misery.  Her loneliness.  If she didn’t have a great distaste for melodrama she would claim that her life ended the day her father announced her betrothal.

 

            It was a pleasant autumn day and his pronouncement was the last thing she had ever expected.  Molly fooled herself into believing that her parents had given up on the notion of her marriage.  She was quickly disabused of that the moment she entered her father’s study.

 

            Her father was a good though conservative man and it never sat well with him that his daughter had a great deal of intelligence.  Her brother, Theodore, took it in stride, finding his precocious little sister a delight.  Molly could always count on him to pick up books that the ladies’ bookshops didn’t carry and gentlemen refused to sell to her.  Before he left to oversee the Bristol branch of the family business he would use Molly as a resource, counting on her keen memory to remember facts and figures.  Theodore gave Molly his old university texts and notes for her perusal after she outgrew her schoolroom and governess.

 

            Lawrence Hooper did not see her mind as something to be nourished but something to be hidden.  He, as well as her mother, told her to hide her intelligence while on the marriage mart.  Intelligent unmarried ladies were hoydens; intelligent married ladies were charming.   He only had himself to blame that his daughter was unable to hide her intelligence.  A shrewd businessman, her father did not suffer fools well and neither did she. 

 

            In the end, her intelligence would be her undoing as she caught the eye of Viscount Brackley while discussing political reform at the opera with her cousins.   Though a confirmed bachelor, it turned out he was in the market for a wife.  Only not for himself but for his brother.  When her father expounded upon Mycroft Holmes’ visit and the marriage contract to his shocked daughter he made sure to give her grudging credit. 

 

“The viscount’s brother’s only demand was that he not be saddled with an idiot.  It appears you were blessed with a brain for a reason, love.  Chin up, Mary!  Once Mycroft dies, you will be a viscountess.  Not bad for a manufacturer’s daughter.”

 

Considering that her father took to calling her Mary despite her vocal protests that she preferred her childhood moniker of ‘Molly’ he didn’t care about what she wanted.  It certainly didn’t cross her father’s mind that she had no desire to be a viscountess.   But her father saw no qualms in disregarding her own aspirations.  Hers were unseemly and unladylike.  She needed a husband to reign her in.   

 

Mrs. Holmes squeaked as she struck her finger after stabbing the linen viciously in remembered anger.  She stuck the wounded digit in her mouth, soothing it with her tongue.  After a minute of nursing it she pulled it out for examination.  Satisfied that there wasn’t a great injury she once again put her needle back to work.

 

 At least for all of her husband’s foibles, he was an intelligent man.  It was too bad he found her to be an imbecile.  Though as he kindly told her ‘everyone is.’  Perhaps if he actually took some time to talk to her he would find she had a decent enough mind.   Considering that would mean abandoning his hobby of solving mysteries if only for ten minutes a day she did not see that happening. 

 

If he wasn’t tearing about London with John Watson at his side, he was locked up in his bedroom or pseudo laboratory on the third floor conducting ‘experiments’ or torturing them all with his violin.  On the rare occasion neither of those kept him occupied, he spent his time twitching and sulking in his dressing gown to the point that she went to the chemist herself to fetch morphine if they had run out.   There was no time in his day for her.

 

Her husband with his ridiculous hobbies, ridiculous experiments, and ridiculous name was too busy to even have supper with her.  

 

 In her opinion the only good thing that came out of this arrangement was her meeting Doctor Watson’s wife at their wedding breakfast.  

 

            Molly’s stitching slowed as she thought about her meeting with Mrs. John Watson. 

 

Molly was her parents’ best chance of increasing their social capital that lagged drastically behind their actual capital.  She was their chance to break into the near impenetrable upper class. To their despair she never mastered the floating elegance they had wanted her to despite the best tutors and companions money could buy.

 

It was typical of her to meet her newest friend by nearly spilling champagne on her dress.

 

            At least it gave them an opening to talk.  It was stilted and awkward but it was the first glimmer of hope she had for her marriage. Despite his horrid behavior on their wedding day, surely a man who would associate with those of a lower social rank so unashamedly couldn’t be all that unredeemable.  Especially considering how kind both Doctor Watson and his wife were.

 

            Mary Watson went out of her way to introduce herself to the new Mrs. Holmes, inviting her over for tea once she had settled into her marriage.   She even took it upon herself to tell her that her new husband was good man despite all his rough edges.

 

            Molly would be lying if she said that didn’t stun her.  But when she inquired why Mrs. Watson thought so she merely replied, “my husband would not give his loyalty to anyone less than a good man.”

 

            Privately, Molly thought that Mrs. Watson merely had a rather high opinion of her own husband.  Something she could forgive considering how almost embarrassingly in love they acted with each other.  It was sweet that Mary still blushed every time her husband entered the room as if she was a schoolgirl.  It was something that **_Dr. Watson_** found amusing, considering the boyish grin he would give her.   

 

            Annie placing the food tray down on the table next to the chair startled Molly.  “Thank you Annie,” Molly murmured quietly.  Annie was the one servant she brought with her to her new home.  She had been Molly’s lady maid for the last four years and she couldn’t bear to part with her.  Though the household on Baker Street wasn’t expansive with only six other servants besides Annie, it was comforting to have a familiar face around.

 

            “Would you like anything else, ma’am?”

 

            “No, that will be all.”

 

            Annie quietly withdrew, leaving her mistress to her increasingly melancholic thoughts.

 

* * *

            The door opened before Sherlock Holmes could touch the knob.  Sherlock smirked as he unraveled his scarf from around his neck and stepped inside.  “Always prompt, Bentley.”

 

            “Thank you sir,” the butler said as he took the scarf, coat, and hat from the younger man.  “Are you in for the night, Mr. Holmes?”

 

            “I should think so, unless Lestrade comes begging for help yet again.  I’ll take my supper in the drawing room.  Something light.”

 

            “Of course.”

 

            Sherlock stretched his long limbs before loping down the hallway.  A good case always put him a good mood and this was a good case.  He was ruminating on the details when he stopped suddenly in the doorway of the drawing room.

 

            His wife was in a chair by the dying fire, her embroidery neglected on her lap.  She was making those odd breathy noises he came to associate with her sleeping state.  She only made those noises when she slept on her back.  He learned much about her sleeping habits over their short marriage.  He made it a habit to sleep in her chambers at least once a week to keep up appearances. It was easier than to face Mycroft’s taunts and lectures about family responsibility.  He had little time for the softer passions of life.  All he needed in life was the work. The only time he eagerly sought his wife’s bed was after he set his own on fire when reading late into night. 

 

It was on John’s advice that he offered to delay their wedding night until Mary was ready.  An offer she eagerly accepted.  Even though she chose the time, Sherlock still could barely look at her without feeling brutish. Obligations, familial and otherwise, were satisfied with truly as little inconvenience to himself as was possible.

 

            “You couldn’t have sent a note?”  Came a quiet but firm voice behind him.

 

            Sherlock grimaced as he turned to face his housekeeper.  As his former nanny, Mrs. Martha Hudson had no problems scolding her employer.  And Sherlock could not find it in him to reprimand her.  “The case was more important.”

 

            “More important than your birthday? Your _wife_?”

 

            Sherlock tilted his head as he looked at her.  “Of course, everything is.”

 

            Judging by the resignation and sorrow on his housekeeper’s face that was not the right thing to say.  It didn’t mean it wasn’t true.

 

            Sherlock quickly changed the subject.  “She didn’t finish her supper.  This is the fifth meal this week at which she has picked.”

 

            “I know, poor girl.  You should spend more time with her, she is a lovely young lady.”

 

            Sherlock bristled at the sympathy in her voice.  It felt like Mrs. Hudson was scolding him.  She was supposed to be on his side.  She was supposed to sympathize with him for being forced into this match.

 

            “I didn’t want this marriage,” he whispered fiercely.  He didn’t ask for his father to ruin his family financially.  He didn’t ask for Mycroft to find him a rich bride.  He didn’t want his home to be invaded by a tiny woman with too large eyes and a quiet, nervous demeanor.  Yes, life became easier after her overly generous dowry infused the family estates with much needed cash and his own pockets became lined with more money.  He was able to buy anything the laboratory equipment he wanted without taking on boring cases.   That didn’t mean he liked the trade off.

 

            Mrs. Hudson looked him straight in the eye, throwing all etiquette aside.  “Neither did she.”

 

            “I’ll take my supper in the study,” he said suddenly and too loudly.  He cringed when he heard the sudden sharp inhalation that signaled his wife return to wakefulness.

 

            “Mr. Holmes?”  She asked drowsily.  He winced slightly at her usage of the formal manner of a wife addressing her husband.  In the two months they had been wed, he could count the number of times he called him by his Christian name on one hand.

 

            “I did not mean to wake you.”  He glanced over his shoulder to see her straighten up from her slumped position.

 

            “You missed supper, do you need me to ring for-“

 

            “I’ve already taken care of it.”

 

            The responding silence was deafening.  “Oh.  Well.  How was your ah mystery?”

 

            Sherlock glowered.  It was obvious that she thought his work to be a waste of time. She would rather see him as a typical member of the _ton._ Doing nothing but flitting from event to event, commenting on who met with whom.  Letting his brain rot until he was no more than an imbecile at Bedlam.  The only work worthy of such a member would be the running of estates. “Solved.  I need to eat.  Good night, Mary.”

 

            As he quickly walked down the hall he could have sworn he heard her softly say, “Molly.”

 

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Posting will probably be slow but I wanted to get this up.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope to make this story fairly realistic in general and for the time period it takes place. That doesn’t mean I am not going to play with some things and take liberties (because hey! It’s fic, not a history text). The main characters, in some respects, will be quite modern but in other respects they’ll be a product of their time, so keep that in mind.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-keys for beta-ing and Lexie for her advice and encouragement.


	2. Chapter 2

 

 

"In Bloomsbury, at the residence of her husband, Reginald Barker CONSTANCE JANE RILEY BARKER, aged 33 years, 7 months and 18 days, after a distressing and brief illness found eternal rest. Her death created a melancholy void to her husband, her children and many affectionate relationships [...]"

15 January 1879 edition of  _The Times_

* * *

"Have you any plans for today?"

Molly looked up in surprise. She set down her pen and turned from the letter she was composing to her brother in order to face her husband who was bouncing on his toes in the doorway. Dr. Watson stood behind him; eyes closed and hand to his forehead as if he was struck with a sudden headache.

Molly had long since resigned to living separate and parallel lives with her husband, him going out of his way to speak to her, especially making small talk, was very uncommon. The back parlor was her domain just as the study and laboratory were his. He had never visited before. "Nothing pressing."

His face broke into a grin, completely transforming his normally stiff visage. "Excellent. We have a funeral to attend."

Molly's mouth dropped. His joyous expression was completely at odds with his statement. "A funeral? For whom?"

Sherlock flitted his hand, as if batting her question away. "The funeral is in three hours. I've already sent for the milliner for mourning attire, as you have none in your wardrobe. They should be here within the hour. Speed is of the essence; we need to be as unobtrusive as possible. Being late will just draw attention…"

He left the room muttering to himself about possible routes and hackneys to take them to Bloomsbury.

Molly followed him with his eyes before turning to Dr. Watson. "Who died?"

Dr. Watson collapsed in the light blue armchair nearest her, earning a raised eyebrow from his best friend's wife. "A client came to us claiming that her daughter was murdered by her husband. It's her funeral."

Molly half rose from her desk chair in alarm, causing Dr. Watson to reflexively leap to his feet. "Oh my goodness! She should contact the police. How on earth can an amateur puzzle solver help her?"

"She has no evidence besides instinct, the police won't open up an inquiry. She hired Sherlock to find evidence to convince the police to investigate." The former army doctor tipped his head to the side. "Officially, I should say. Chances are Sherlock will have the case wrapped up and will just hand it over to them for prosecution."

"Can, can Mr. Holmes do that? Find evidence for a police investigation?"

"If the mother is right, Sherlock will find the evidence," Dr. Watson assured.

* * *

Two hours later Molly was draped in ebony crepe, her face obscured by a similarly colored veil and sitting in a hired carriage with her twitchy husband. She bit her lip and tried to contain her own desire to fidget. Ladies did not squirm or show nervousness. Also, her husband had already snapped at her once for fidgeting. Apparently while his was helpful to his 'process' her own was annoying and distracting.

It wasn't her fault that crepe was a very loud fabric that amplified her most subtle movements.

She brushed the curtain aside to look out at the very slowly passing shops. The congestion in the streets was even worse than to what she was accustomed.

"You have questions, out with it."

Molly tore her eyes from two arguing men outside the butcher's shop and looked up. "Why am I coming with you instead of Dr. Watson?"

It wasn't the only question she had but it was certainly the most pressing one. From what she had gleaned from Mrs. Hudson and Mary, she knew that John Watson and Sherlock Holmes rarely went any place besides their homes and sometimes Dr. Watson's medical practice without the other. The reason that Dr. Watson was happily on his way home for a relaxing day and she was accompanying her husband to a funeral of a possible murder victim was beyond her.

Her husband cocked one of his bushy eyebrows at her. "Obvious I would think. I need to keep a low profile. My…interests are not exactly secret. If I should show up on my own or with John, it could raise suspicion. Here, I am not an investigator but a dutiful husband supporting his wife in her time of distress."

Mrs. Holmes' brow furrowed in confusion. "Am I supposed to perpetuate this charade by acting distressed at this funeral?"

"Oh, I am reasonably certain you will not need to act. Your softhearted nature-"

Only her husband could make empathy sound like a disease.

"-Coupled with the fact that you are familiar with Mrs. Barker will no doubt lead to a satisfactory display of grief."

Molly mouthed 'Mrs. Barker' to herself as she tried to think of any acquaintance by that name. "Constance Barker?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

"Constance Barker has been murdered." Surely she had to be wrong. People she knew were  _not_  murdered, it was just unfathomable.

"Possibly," Sherlock conceded before cracking his neck absentmindedly.

Molly took a deep breath and sat back heavily against the seat.  _Murdered._

She hadn't spent much time with Constance after her marriage to Reginald Barker, a wealthy physician. When she was still Constance Riley, Molly counted her as a close acquaintance. They, along with Molly's cousin, attended the same ladies' literary clubs and shared similar societal views. Molly hadn't talked or thought of Constance in years. With Constance marrying below her station and becoming a mother and Molly slowly becoming a spinster, their social circles gradually became separate. Molly never dreamed when she awoke this morning she would be attending her funeral.

"Ah, we're here. Just in time too," Sherlock said, peering out the window. A collection of empty coaches was gathered outside the Barkers' Bloomsbury home, waiting for the coffin to be placed upon the hearse and the funeral procession to begin. Their row house was quite an ordinary dingy gray, nothing about it suggested it was the site of something as gruesome as a murder.

Molly shivered as she caught sight of the restless ostrich plumed black horses harnessed to the hearse. The foot attendants had already broke into the gin and were freely imbibing as they milled about waiting for the processional and their roles to begin. Looking back up at the Barkers' house, she suddenly felt like an outsider, a voyeur on this family's grief. Fingertips brushing her arm brought her attention away from the milieu and back to her husband.

Sherlock opened the door and quickly alighted, turning to help her from the carriage. In contrast to the excitable energy he displayed in the carriage he looked the picture of solemn mourner, from his stern expression to the jet crepe band on his top hat. Dread filled Molly as she grabbed his hand and stepped down onto the slushy pavement. This felt wrong. Surely it would be more decent to wait until after the funeral to investigate. She was fairly sure that there was no way to stop Constance from being interred today, even if they could find evidence. Surely it would be better to not intrude but wait.

The door opened before they could knock, causing the black beribboned yew wreath to swing precariously on its hook. The butler bowed slightly as Sherlock handed them their invitation before taking off his hat. "The procession shall begin as soon as the family has greeted everyone, sir," he said.

Sherlock nodded as he ushered Molly into the throng of people who had already arrived. He bent close to Molly to whisper in her ear, "We don't have much time. I am going to look around, wait in the queue for me."

His hot breath caused Molly to shiver, her veil the only thing separating his lips and her ears. "A-all right," she agreed. With that, he was gone leaving her to wait to make her condolences.

Molly tried to act casual as she stood in wait. She scanned the crowd, hoping to see a familiar face with whom she could talk. Their social circles weren't too dissimilar, surely there would be someone she knew, if only to make mundane conversation. All she saw were pale, drawn unfamiliar faces.

People with the same distinctive nose as Constance sat on divans and chairs, red eyed and stiff. A teenager with Constance's grey eyes stood stiffly by his mother. Molly's eyes began to burn upon seeing their genuine grief.

She was never very good at disassociating with the living.

Molly sniffed and turned her attention to the landscape on the wall, studying its pastel colors and composition in an attempt to distract herself and regain some control.

Her breath caught as she noticed the scribbled signature in the corner.  _C. Riley 1869._ How did she not know that Constance painted? It wasn't an expert landscape by any means, Molly could easily see where certain aspects just weren't quite right, but it was still quite lovely if only for the use of colors.

A slight cough behind her caught her attention. Oh the line had moved without her. She whispered her apologies and quickly closed the gap between her and the mourner before her.

The closer she drew to the grieving family the more dread started to set in. She was sure that she would say something stupid or give away the reason she was truly here. Molly couldn't claim to be entirely comfortable in the most typical of social occasions, let alone in more uncommon ones.

Molly desperately tried to think of memories of Constance that she could share with her family as she gave her condolences. To let them know that she remembered their wife, daughter, and sister. For some reason, all she could remember was Constance's love of  _Jane Eyre: An Autobiography._  She had begged it off a married friend and constantly chattered about it. She even loaned it to Molly with a sly smile so that she too could indulge in the gothic novel and admire Jane's audacity.

Molly groaned, surely sharing the deceased's love of improper books was not the correct memory to share. Especially considering its infamous and ridiculous reputation as a book that espoused anti-Christian views.

She was seriously considering faking a faint once she realized she was next when she felt a presence behind her. "Oh thank the Lord," she muttered when she turned around to see her husband standing next to her.

Sherlock shot her a surprised look before turning to offer their condolences to the gathered family.

He was a rather brilliant actor. Truly. He should have taken up acting as a hobby instead of mysteries. Though honestly both were equally inappropriate.

When he told her that he was going to play the dutiful husband she did not expect him to do so to such a degree that he did. She expected that he would offer his condolences on their behalf, claiming she was too distraught to convey them properly herself. She even accepted his less than complimentary insinuations of the weakness of her sex.

However she did not anticipate him finding her a spot to sit and fetching her a plate from the buffet, fussing over her like a mother hen. When she hesitated in taking part in the light lunch provided, he knelt down and entreated her to eat, to the approving looks of those around them.

Molly was so flabbergasted that she ate without any more encouragement.

If she was being honest, Molly wished that he would cease his shamming. She would rather prefer his genuine neglect to his false interest. At least then she would know what his thoughts were towards her. Honestly, if she were an outside observer, Molly thought that she would have been pulled in by his act.

The moment they were back in the carriage and the door was shut, Sherlock shut his eyes, his act done and disregarded. Molly sighed as she closed the covering of the windows as they waited to join the funeral procession. It was entirely probable that he would disappear into his mind for hours. She only hoped he would emerge in time for the funeral. She had no idea how to rouse him, or if he could be roused, from his so called 'mind palace.'

Her husband's quiet mutterings combined with the barely perceptible swaying of the coach began to lull her to sleep. The darkened interior was certainly doing her no favors. Her fingers itched to pull up the blinds and watch London pass them by for want of a distraction. Whoever thought that closed blinds during funeral processions were  _de rigeur_ had obviously never been to a funeral in the city. Even with people making way for them, eager to avoid any brush with death no matter how minor, they would still be cloistered for at least an hour.

After exhausting her favored mental exercises, Molly finally gave in to her urge. She leaned against the side of the carriage and closed her eyes. She was still on the edge of wakefulness, her thoughts slippery when she heard Sherlock mutter, "Finally."

She opened her eyes to see her husband peeking through the blinds. Molly only caught a fleeting glance but it was enough to see that they had finally pulled into Kensal Green, resting place of many of London's notables.

Sherlock leapt from the carriage the moment it came to a stop some fifteen minutes later. He held out his hand to help her down from the carriage. "It'll be a silver crown for you if you wait," he called to the driver.

"'Course, guv," the driver replied with a grin and tip of his hat.

Sherlock nodded at the driver before placing Molly's hand on his arm. They walked sedately down the gravel path joining the growing crowd of mourners who were murmuring and bobbing about like a murder of crows. Molly snorted lightly at the unfortunate wording given the circumstances. Sherlock patted her hand, giving her a curious look. Molly shook her head, glad for her veil, and turned her attention to her surroundings.

In the warmer months, the greenery and shade obscured the collection of white marble and lent the cemetery an almost fae atmosphere. In the dead of winter, the trees void of life and snow clinging to the ground it wasn't hard to remember the macabre nature of the area.

The white Doric chapel loomed ahead, the stained glass twinkling through the doors above the altar the only splash of color to be seen. As soon as they entered, Sherlock steered her towards the back of the crowd, obscuring her view of the service.

Molly was stuck between her husband and a rather over large man to her right who kept repeatedly sniffing. Molly was still debating whether or not it would be appropriate to offer up her handkerchief to the irritating sniffler so that he may blow his nose when the service began.

It was a relatively short funeral, devoid of a communion service, for which Molly was grateful. Her position at the back of the chapel meant that she could not see what little was going on, her view taken up by a sea of black, no matter how she shifted. The vicar doled out platitudes that Molly was sure she had heard before at other funerals. The eulogies were long but devoid of any meaningful sentiment. Molly hoped that when the Lord saw fit that she should enter His kingdom that her surviving relatives didn't fall into cliché. Short and personal was her preference, not long flowery language which painted the deceased as an almost deity, devoid of any fault.

As soon as the final prayers and blessings were uttered, Sherlock was gone from her side. Molly didn't notice his leaving until she turned to take his arm.

Molly tried to find him in the crowd but her petite stature prevented her. She shuffled out of the chapel with the rest of the mourners, intent on waiting outside for her husband to emerge. The women were already breaking off into small groups to make the journey back to the coaches to wait. Only the men were to witness the internment.

Personally, Molly thought it was bizarre that women were not allowed to attend. It wasn't as if the body would be on display for all to see or that they didn't know what exactly was going to happen at an interment. She was pondering the possible reasons why women were not allowed to observe when she heard someone softly call her name. Molly forgot all about waiting for her husband as she looked for the person calling her name.

Sarah Sawyer emerged from the crowd and gave her a weak smile as she made her way over to her.

"I was unaware that you knew Constance," Molly greeted

"We're cousins. Our mothers are sisters," Sarah supplied as she took Molly's arm. Molly followed her lead and joined the rest of the women on their way back to the carriages.

"Oh my, I had no idea. I'm so sorry for your loss. My cousin was good friends with Constance before she passed. I knew her from the literary gatherings she would beg me to attend before she became too ill. I felt it was only right to pay my respects since Joanna could not."

"We weren't very close," Sarah admitted. "We were as children but we grew apart after her marriage. Her husband forbade our interaction. Thought I would be a bad influence. We still exchanged letters when we had the chance but you know horrible I am at remembering to return correspondence."

Molly gave her a sympathetic smile. Molly did not have a large family, Joanna had been her only cousin before she succumbed to tuberculosis, but she would be loath to lose the family she did have.

"Congratulations. On your marriage. Quite the coup to land yourself the son of a peer," Sarah said as they walked arm and arm down the white gravel pathway riddled with black pieces of crepe that had come off due to the slush.

"Indeed, I am quite fortunate," Molly said, parroting the phrase she used so often during her engagement when she was besieged by incredulous well-wishers.

There wasn't really anything else to say. She was not about to admit the dissatisfaction she had with her marriage or her jealousy that she did not possess the forward thinking parents that Sarah did.

"We were grieved to see you leave. And lost. We have no one to beg answers off of and certainly no one with enough patience to explain things. My marks have gone down substantially!"

Molly let out a strained laugh. "Oh honestly, Sarah! You make it sound as if you were a dunce when I know for certain that you had better marks than I in almost half of our classes!"

"I wonder how your father even found out?" Sarah contemplated aloud. "You'd think if he didn't notice during the first two years, he certainly wouldn't in the third!"

"Lord Brackley, my brother in law," Molly clarified after noticing Sarah's baffled look, "told him during marriage negotiations. Father was furious. And embarrassed, I think, because he never noticed. He recalled my brother from Bristol to dress him down in person. He even sold my books."

Sarah gasped softly. "Molly, I'm so sorry. I wish there was something I could have done."

Molly shrugged. "There was nothing to do. Father threatened to cut Theodore off if he helped me and I had no way to support myself. My life isn't so horrible, boring but not horrible. Theodore replaced all my books as a wedding present. My husband is not a cruel man. I am more fortunate than not."

Sarah nodded in understand. "More lucky than Constance. She loved Reggie but I don't think he felt the same for her."

"Really?" They slowed down, creating even more distance between themselves and the other women for privacy.

Sarah shot her a guilty look. "I won't go into details, it's not my place, but he was indiscreet in dishonoring his marriage vows. Rumor is the governess had to resign because she was with his child. He also had a propensity for gambling if family gossip is to be believed. He wasn't all bad," Sarah hastened to add. "He apparently was quite vigilant about his family's health. Always alert to any maladies that plagued them. I overheard Constance telling my mother about how he favored dosing the family and himself with tartar emetic at the slightest indication of irregularity."

"He is a credit to his profession to be so vigilant," Molly murmured.

She occasionally wondered how she would feel if Sherlock employed a mistress. Though for all of her money, her family's values were firmly middle class and one did not take on a mistress. Her mother warned her that the peerage was different and to turn a blind eye to any of her husband's indiscretions. Though if Sherlock had any indiscretions he was certainly very good at being discrete. Molly couldn't imagine Sherlock being unfaithful. Not for any love of their marriage vows, though despite his misbehavior by and large he was quite the gentleman, but he seemed even more disinterested in the physical aspect of their marriage than he was in the emotional one. Surely, it would be more convenient to have a wife than a mistress and one thing Molly knew well about her husband was just how slothful he could be. Why, if they happened to be in the same room and a servant was needed, she was the one to ring for them, as he would refuse to move!

Molly glanced over her shoulder at the sound of quick heavy footsteps approaching. Her eyes widened when she saw her husband walking swiftly towards them, an excited gleam in his eye. She had assumed that he was staying for the internment with the rest of the gentlemen.

"Molly?" Sarah questioned, turning to see what caught her companion's attention. "Oh."

Sherlock's eyes flitted over Sarah, as they did every time he encountered someone, before turning to her. Clearly Sarah was not worth his time.

"Oh, um, Miss Sawyer, allow me to introduce my husband, Mr. Holmes; Mr. Holmes, Miss Sawyer. We studied together for a time."

Sherlock gave a curt bow in response to Sarah's bobbed curtsey. "A pleasure. Pardon the interruption, ladies, but I need to see my wife home."

"Of course," Sarah agreed. "Perhaps when you have time Molly, I might be able to pay you a call?"

"When I have time? Oh my dear, I think your time constraints are presently more pressing than mine."

Sarah squeezed Molly's hand fondly before taking her leave.

Sherlock wordlessly offered his wife his arm. They returned to their waiting couch in silence. The journey to Baker Street was much quicker then the journey to Kensal Green, the driver rushing as quickly as possible through the crowded London streets at Sherlock's urging.

Sherlock jumped out of the carriage the moment it stopped, just barely managing to stay still long enough to assist her. As soon as he paid the driver he called out to one of the few street urchins that lingered around their doorstep. Molly had never seen such a gathering of unfortunate children until she moved to Baker Street. Her family home on Cavendish Square had no such characters milling about.

"Take this to the Yard as quick as you can," her husband said, handing the boy a note and a coin. "Give this to Lestrade and only Lestrade, understood?"

The boy grinned wildly, showing off his two emerging front teeth.

Sherlock watched the boy disappear into the crowd for a second before turning to escort her indoors.

Bentley opened the door as soon as they came to the stoop, whisking away their outerwear in as quick and efficient a fashion that only butlers could employ.

Molly was halfway up the stairs intent on changing out of her ghastly uncomfortable dress when her husband's voice stopped her.

"Molly," he said in a questioning tone, as if studying how his mouth formed the syllables of her name.

"Yes?" she replied, turning to look at him.

Sherlock's head was cocked to the side. Her husband was studying her the way he only did once before, on their first meeting almost four months ago in her family's drawing room. He didn't say anything for the first few minutes, choosing to look fixedly on her as if trying to learn all her secrets.

"You look more like a Molly than a Mary. It suits you. Childhood moniker?"

Molly's mind went blank for a moment in surprise. She was unsure of what she was expecting, but it certainly was not that. "Yes, my nanny used to call me that. She said I reminded her of her sister."

"It's more common among the lower classes. Your parents did not like the connotation."

"Yes. Well, no. I mean, when I made my bow my parents insisted on calling me Mary but beforehand it was always Molly."

Sherlock broke eye contact, his eyes darting to the side as if filing the information away. He walked away without a word towards his study, nodding to himself.

Molly sighed and continued climbing the stairs.

* * *

Nothing.  _Nothing!_ That damnable idiot found nothing!

Sherlock threw the autopsy report against the door. When that did not make a suitable enough noise, he hurled an ugly statue of a bulldog he received as a wedding present against it as well.

There. Much more satisfying.

Reginald Barker showed all the evidence of murdering his wife. His over the top display of grief, his guilt around his children, the avoidance of his mother in law, the sudden dismissal of a pregnant governess, the way he put on his gloves! All of it pointed to the fact that Constance Barker's end was not natural.

She was exhumed from her grave almost immediately the dirt not even given time to settle. Lestrade made it clear that he did not like the idea of exhuming Mrs. Barker, especially because her husband quite vehemently objected. Only once Sherlock hunted down the currently unemployed governess and gained her confession to her adulterous affair did Lestrade relent.

There were at least ten theories racing through his head but he needed more data before he could settle on one. Data he did not have because Nigel Anderson was an  _idiot._  He was unworthy to work in the field of police work, let alone that of deduction! The magistrate refused to issue a search warrant until Constance Barker's manner of death could be ascertained and Anderson determined there was no foul play, baring him from gaining further access to the Barker residence.

Sherlock let out a cry of frustration as he hurdled his glass against a wall. All of this work for nothing!

"Mr. Holmes! What on earth is going on?"

Sherlock whirled around to see his wife standing in the doorway. Her alert eyes contrasted with the sage green dressing gown that was hastily thrown over her nightclothes. Her hair was bound in a thick braid that peeked out from the thick lace of her robe.

His eyes flicked to the clock. Three in the morning. Later than he had thought.

"Anderson is an idiot."

"I beg your pardon?"

"An idiot! A moron! A buffoon! A doddy!" He ran his hands through his hair in frustration.

"Mr. Anderson would be…"

"A man who calls himself a coroner but I wouldn't be surprised if the closest he came to working with the human body would be-" Sherlock cut himself off. It was quite obvious that Anderson enjoyed the employ of women of disrepute but he was not going to say so in front of his  _wife._ "Whoever trained that man, if anyone, should have any sort of licensure removed as he was clearly not up to the task."

He threw himself down on the couch. Wasted. All of the time wasted and he will not know how Barker did it. Damn Anderson! And damn the magistrate too! He knew Barker did it, he just didn't know how.

"Oh leave it," he said when he heard the rustling of paper. A servant will pick it up in the morning, no need for her to do it. Last thing he needed was for her to read the report and become distraught. He had no patience for feminine histrionics. Medicine had no room for whatever delightfully asinine euphemism society created this week for body parts in its spare time.

Oh his mind was becoming slippery! It always did in the dark of the night when he had deprived himself of sleep. It had only been three days; there was no reason for him to be so exhausted as he was now. He should close his eyes and think. That will get his mind back on track. Sherlock just needed to focus on the work. To just think…

"Is there no chemical report?"

"What?" Sherlock asked. He was surprised when he opened his eyes to see the hazy gray light of dawn.

"I said, is there no chemical report?"

He twisted away from the back of the sofa to see Molly sitting by the fire, the pages of the report placed in neat little piles around her and his notebook on her lap. There was soot on her dressing gown from where she had poked the dying fire inexpertly with the fire iron. Her hair, which had been falling out earlier, was pulled in a tight and messy bun low on her head. Sherlock blinked at her. What on earth was she doing? How long had he been asleep? He sat up, a blanket pooling at his lap. Sherlock touched it for a moment, where had this come from?

"I am merely inquiring because her symptoms and the physical evidence suggest the possibility of aconite or antimonial poisoning. It doesn't look like arsenic, if the tongue is truly flesh colored. However without a chemical report I can't say for certain. The damage to the liver and gastrointestinal lining," Molly paused to shift through the papers, "do seem to point to antimony. Aconite doesn't seem likely for surely  _someone_ would have noticed signs of paralysis, don't you think? In the interest of honesty, Miss Sawyer mentioned earlier about how Dr. Barker was fond of antimonial cures. That gave me a nudge in that direction. I say, Mr. Holmes are you all right?"

For the first time since he could remember his mind was completely empty without any help whatsoever from the poppy plant. He was aware that his mouth was hanging open like a dead fish but he could not seem to be able to shut it. For a moment he thought that there was a possibility that he might still be dreaming. "What?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key for beta-ing!
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the-keeper-of-the-key/ohtigermytiger for beta-ing!
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews

 

* * *

 

Student's Form.

_APPLICATION FOR ADMISSION_

TO THE

London School of Medicine for Women.

I hereby apply to be admitted as a Student of the School, and I declare that I intend to pursue a complete course of qualifying medical study, and to present myself in due course to the Examining Boards with a view to obtaining a registrable diploma.

I undertake to conform in all respects to the regulations laid down by the Executive Council, and in particular to abstain from presenting myself to any Examining Board until I have received from the Dean of the School full permission to do so.

 _Signature,_ Mary Augusta Hooper

Address: Alderley House, Cavendish Square, London

* * *

 

_Brooks, Hurles, and Tyler-Smiths, Solicitors_

19 January 1875

Mr. Theodore Hooper authorizes the transfer of the sum of £1,100 from his account to The London School of Medicine for Women on behalf of Mary Augusta Hooper for the Spring Term[…]

* * *

 

"I-I," Molly stuttered. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have pried." She stood up, Sherlock's notebook dropping on the pile of papers with a soft thud. Molly wrung her hands for a moment before quickly making her way across the floor.

Sherlock lunged across the side of the couch and caught her hand before she could exit. "What were you saying about antimony?"

Molly ducked her head to the side, obscuring her face in shadows. "J-just that her results were consistent with antimonial poisoning and her body should be tested."

Sherlock's gripped tightened involuntarily. "Antimony," he whispered to himself. Easy for a physician to obtain and easy to administer without arousing suspicion from either the victim or the help. He glanced at the clock on the mantle and frowned. "No one will be at Bart's this early. Damn it."

"Could you let go of me? Please?" Molly asked.

Sherlock glanced down at where he was still holding his wife's wrist. "Oh, of course. Antimony. How do you know what the signs of antimonial poisoning are?"

Molly wrapped her arms around her. Sherlock cocked his head to the side at the defensive move. His wife was by and large an open book to him; the fact that she could have a secret was definitely intriguing.

"I had wished to specialize in pathology," Molly said, her chin set in a manner approximating that of defiance, which was completely at odds with her nervous body language.

 _Pathology? Graduating?_  His mind raced as he put together the pieces of information.

"Ah. You mentioned you studied together with that woman at the funeral. I had assumed you meant during your youth. Sloppy of me, you were obviously trained by a governess, judging by your penmanship. No, you were talking of more recent studies. University of London just started admitting female students this year so you couldn't have attended there. To be that knowledgeable in pathology, to know poisons, that is far beyond beginner's courses."

His wife's mouth dropped open and her eyes grew wider as he talked. It distantly occurred to him that this might have been the first time she had heard him deduce out loud. John had warned him to keep his deductions to himself during their brief pseudo courting phase. Mycroft had also told him the same thing, with the addition of a threat that he would reduce his allowance to the point that would threaten his independence if he endangered the betrothal due to his actions. After their first meeting there was no need to deduce her, as he had done it all in his head.

"That really only leaves one option: London School of Medicine for Women. There's no possible way you could have studied at Edinburgh. Interesting choice for a woman of your class. You're a lady of leisure, no need for employment. Especially not something as controversial as being a physician. Nursing is much more acceptable for women who work in medicine. You haven't graduated, though. If you had you would have attempted to find a position instead of going through with the wedding because why go through the years of study and stress, for it had to be stressful to do your studies while hiding it from your parents, they definitely would not have allowed such a thing, and maintaining at least a veneer of society life to throw it away on marriage. You had to know that the chances of your continued study after marriage would be next to impossible."

Molly continued to stare at him, bug eyed and slack jawed as she had throughout his deduction for an uncomfortable period of time. She eventually blinked and mouthed the word 'how' without ever actually managing to utter it.

"Simple. I observed and I deduced from what I observed." He shrugged. "Do you know how to test for antimonial poisoning?"

Molly shook her head as if to clear it. "In theory. You need to use Marsh's process and uh, Stas's…?" Her voice trailed off as her eyes darted to the side. "No, not Stas's. Reinsch's process to test for antimony. I have the steps written down in one of my chemistry notebooks. I've only done it twice." She bit her lip before continuing. "I was supposed to have a chemistry practicum last semester. Why?"

Sherlock strolled to the bell pull and yanked it. "I am quite skilled in chemistry. If you have the steps, I can easily obtain the results. Get dressed, we're going to St. Bartholomew's."

Molly froze under his gaze, her brown eyes wide and bright. " _We_  are?"

Sherlock sighed in annoyance. "Yes.  _We._  I need you to assist me in testing. No one is in the laboratory, John refuses do lab work-with good reason, he's horribly incompetent- and I refuse to wait. This case has gone on long enough."

"You want me to help?" Her voice was high and incredulous.

"Obviously."

"You don't think it's unnatural?" Her words were rushed and almost unintelligible.

Sherlock scoffed. "Unnatural? Hardly, it's quite logical. You went to school, you learned, and now you're going to apply your knowledge. I fail to see what could possibly be unnatural about that. Now stop you're blithering. We're wasting valuable time!"

Sherlock was not entirely sure what reaction he was expecting but the incredulous laugh that escaped from his wife's lips was definitely not one. He shifted uncomfortably when he realized that there were tears at the corners of her eyes. Perhaps his last few sentences were a bit too harsh. John always said he needed to be more gentle and tactful. While tact and gentleness was a waste of time in his profession, he supposed he should consider employing it on occasion with his wife. If only to avoid Mrs. Hudson's scowls and John's scolding. John always knew when he upset Molly; it was a problem inherent to the fact that their wives were close friends. Mary had a tendency to run to her husband with tales. "Uh, I mean. Would you please accompany me to St. Bartholomew's?"

"Yes!" Molly replied as she nodded her head wildly, a grin wide on her face.

Oh. Perhaps she wasn't upset after all.

She stepped towards him, stopping just a foot away. He warily watched her hands as they clenched and unclenched rapidly. Was she going to hug him? Her hands eventually clasped together, as if she had to physically restrain herself from touching him, an issue she never had before. "Thank you," she whispered. "Thank you."

Sherlock stared at her, unsure of what to say in reply. Before he could think of something she swept past him, making her way down the carpeted hall, her gait just short of a run.

"Come, Annie." He heard her say in the distance. "I need to dress quickly!"

Her lady's maid's faint, sleepy reply was nearly drowned out by the sound of Molly's running footsteps up the staircase. Odd how such a small person could make such noise.

Sherlock caught a glimpse of himself as he moved to pick up his abandoned notebook. He should probably change his clothes in to something more suitable as well.

* * *

 

"Would you like the green today, ma'am? Or perhaps the purple? It does flatter you so." Annie quickly covered her mouth as she yawned.

"No, no, no," Molly replied, spitting out the lurid pink remnants of her toothpaste into the washbasin. "The plaid."

"Ma'am…" Annie's tone was that of great reluctance. The dress was not one of her most fashionable ones, in fact it bordered on the line of ugly. Even Molly wasn't sure of what she thought of the dress or why she had it made. Some times it was hideous and at others it was perfectly acceptable. No matter its aesthetic attributes, it was extremely comfortable and warm, which was always a boon in the winter. Also she wouldn't mind if it became mussed in the laboratory.

"Yes, yes I know you hate it but that's the dress for today. Hurry," Molly urged. She doubted that Sherlock would leave without her but she was not going to take any risks. She was actually going back to the lab! No need to endure any tedious social visits. No need to micromanage the household for lack of industry. No need to go shopping if only to fill the time while counting down the days when she would meet with her charities, the only place she found of herself of use. Today was a day of when she would finally do  _something._

The brunette woman shifted from foot to foot in impatient excitement as Annie began laying out all of her undergarments. Molly snatched her chemise and bloomers and rushed behind the changing screen. Her nightgown in a pile on the floor, she hurriedly slipped into her garments.

"Oh don't worry about the wrinkles. It'll be mucked up soon enough," Molly said when she reappeared. She sat on the bed and slipped on her stockings, making sure to tie them tightly before grabbing her corset to begin hooking the front. "Oh for goodness sakes," she muttered when she encountered difficulties.

"Miss Mary, please let me do that! It'll be much quicker."

Molly sighed and dropped her hands. Annie efficiently fastened the front of her employer's corset before moving to tighten the laces in the back. Molly tried her best not to fidget as Annie methodically pulled. Thankfully, the bustle had finally gone out of style in favor of slimmer styles, so she only had to bother with a petticoat.

"Are you sure you won't change your mind?" Annie asked, holding the underskirt in her arms. "I truly think that purple or the burgundy would be much more pleasing."

Molly double-checked that her petticoat was buttoned in place and held out her arms. She bent over slightly and said, "The plaid, Annie."

The maid shook her head as she looped the skirt over Molly's head. She swiftly straightened the skirt before placed the similarly patterned overskirt on top. "Such beautiful dresses and you chose this one."

"I'm going to the laboratory today, Annie." Molly could barely keep the excitement out of her voice as she pulled on her matching bodice.

"Does Mr. Holmes know?" Annie's eyes widened the moment she finished speaking. "That wasn't my place. I'm so sorry, ma'am."

"No, it wasn't," Molly agreed. She walked over to her vanity, perched on the edge of the bench and began to let down her hair. "Something simple and quick."

"Mr. Holmes asked me to accompany him," Molly continued while Annie brushed her hair. She wasn't truly upset with Annie for her comment. After years of Annie coming with her to lectures and helping cover up her true activities with little incentive, their relationship was closer than most ladies with their maids. Molly did not appreciate the reminder that almost everything she did was reliant upon her husband's permission. Many of her friends found liberation in their marriage and starting their own households and family, Molly's was a cage. Now it seemed that there was a chance that it didn't have to be as claustrophobic an institution as she had feared. If her husband wished for her help and supported her learning, perhaps he would allow her to assist him further. Employment as a pathologist was now a lost dream but perhaps she could at least finish what she had begun, if for no reason but her own fulfillment.

A knock on the connecting door to her husband's room startled Molly.

"Are you nearly ready?" Her husband's voice came through the door impatiently.

"Almost!" Molly flinched as Annie twisted her hair a bit too harshly in her attempt to neatly gather Molly's long hair. Annie quickly pinned her mistress's hair in tight bun at the base of her skull. "You may come in, if you wish."

The door immediately opened. Sherlock looked as neatly dressed as he normally was with the exception of his hair. His normally styled hair was a barely tamed mass of nearly cherubic curls.

 _Goodness, he looks rather fetching,_ Molly thought before rising from her chair to grab her heavy winter bonnet.

"Mrs. Hudson arranged for cook to pack some leftover scones for your breakfast. No time for tea, but there should be some at Barts."

Molly nodded dumbly as she tied the velvet laces beneath her chin. She smiled at her husband. "I'm ready!"

Sherlock's eyes quickly raked over her. He arched his eyebrows and asked, "Do you really wish to go shoeless?"

Molly's cheeks reddened. She had completely forgotten about her shoes! Molly looked over at Annie who was helpless standing by her wardrobe, holding out Molly's most comfortable pair of brown boots.

Molly sat down, wordlessly and hiked up her skirts so that Annie could put on her shoes. The moment Annie fastened the last button Molly sprang up. "I just need to fetch my notebooks from the parlor."

"Good, Bentley should have hailed a carriage by now. Meet me out front." He turned abruptly on his heel and left.

Molly quickly made her way to her back parlor and scooped up all of her old notebooks, even the ones unrelated to chemical techniques. She was not going to risk bringing the wrong notebook along. If she made a mistake, who knew if she would ever have a second opportunity?

She stuffed the notebooks into her battered carpetbag.

Bentley was waiting down the hall, holding out her favorite gray cape.

"Thank you, Bentley," Molly said as he helped her into her outerwear.

Bentley nodded, handing her her soft gloves. "Mr. Holmes is waiting in the carriage outside, Mrs. Holmes. Shall I carry your bag for you?"

"No, thank you Bentley." Molly slipped on her gloves and grabbed her bag. "I have it quite in hand."

"Mrs. Holmes!" came a cry from behind her. Mrs. Hudson walked down the hall quicker than Molly thought possible. She had overheard the housekeeper's complaints of a bad hip numerous times in the few months she had been at Baker Street. Though Mrs. Hudson was dressed, her hair was still in a thin silver braid and she had a nightcap still on her head.

"Mrs. Hudson," Molly greeted.

"Here you go, dear. I left it out for Sher- _Mr._ Holmes to take," Mrs. Hudson held up a rather large bundled cheesecloth that Molly could only imagine was full of the scones her husband had mentioned, "but you know how he gets when there is a case brewing."

Molly was a bit surprised to find herself nodding knowingly. She  _did_  know how single-minded Sherlock became while on a case, eschewing all food and drink except for overly sweetened coffee. It surprised that she knew this fact about this man who was little more than a complete stranger that she happened to live with.

Mrs. Hudson continued to speak, returning Molly's attention to the aging housekeeper. "I wish he would remember to eat, the silly boy. Now I packed some scones along with some ham and hard cheese. Lord only knows how long you two will be gone." Mrs. Hudson grabbed her hand, surprising Molly.

She knew that Mrs. Hudson was Sherlock's former nanny and their relationship was abnormally close but being this familiar with the help was quite new to her. Her family was always polite to their servants and treated them with respect but none of them would be so unabashedly bold as 221b's housekeeper. Somehow Mrs. Hudson's affections were not entirely unpleasant.

"You be careful, who knows what nonsense he'll stir up. You're his wife, not Dr. Watson."

"I'm sure we'll encounter nothing untoward at St. Bartholomew's, Mrs. Hudson," Molly protested weakly.

The housekeeper gave her a dark look. "Mr. Holmes also has a host of experiments that he keeps running at St. Bartholomew's."

Molly couldn't quite suppress a grimace. She was quite familiar with the smells and occasional bangs that would emanate from her husband's pseudo laboratory.

"What is taking so long?" Came an irritated voice from behind Molly.

Molly looked over her shoulder to see her husband standing in the doorway, snowflakes melting on his black curls. If he was attempting to hide his irritation, he was not doing it at all well.

"I was making sure Mrs. Holmes was prepared for the day," Mrs. Hudson said pertly.

Sherlock let out a low humph. He reached past Molly and grabbed the food-laden cheesecloth. "Well, if we're all done preparing, let's go."

He turned on his heel and left, leaving Molly to follow in his wake.

* * *

 

The only acknowledgement Molly made to the fact that she knew Constance Barker was placing a rag gently over her face. After that, she went to work with more confidence than Sherlock had ever truly expected. Molly had almost cowered next to him as they had walked through the corridors of Barts, as if worried someone was about to jump out of the shadows and demand to know why she was here. She visibly relaxed as soon as she stepped into the cool, windowless basement room that served as the mortuary. After a perfunctory inspection of the autopsy tools, his wife walked through past the line of sheet-shrouded corpses, pausing only to read their toe tags.

The few samples Anderson had taken were deemed unnecessary to keep and discarded. Hopefully his incompetence will be a blessing in disguise. Fresh (well relatively given Mrs. Barker's rapidly deteriorating state) samples obtained by a theoretically competent scientist would be much more preferable to whatever slapdash method Anderson no doubt used to collect his own.

Molly snorted sharply as she efficiently snipped the sutures holding Mrs. Barker's chest together, causing his lips to twitch. The sickly sweet smell of decomposition was always more prominent once the cadaver was opened, or reopened in this case. It was a difficult scent to become accustomed to, decomposition. It burned the nose and clung to clothing like ink, almost impossible to be rid of even after a thorough washing. The smell of decomposition was almost cyclic in nature. As soon as the nose becomes acclimated to the stench of decomposition, another wave hits.

"Do you happen to have any peppermint oil?"

"There should be some." Sherlock slid off his stool and began rummaging through the vials on a nearby desk. He let out a soft noise of victory as he picked up the bottle. Peppermint and decay, the two smells were forever entwined in his mind. He put a small drop of oil on his finger and rubbed it under his nose, enjoying the cool tingling sensation as it reached his sinuses.

He put another drop on his finger and went to do the same for his wife. He bent over to see, as her face was mere inches from Mrs. Barker's abdomen. Molly jerked back in surprise. "What are you doing?" she nearly cried in response.

"Putting some peppermint under your nose!" He defended. "I would think that you would be reluctant to apply it yourself!"

Molly's hands were slick with liquid that was formerly Constance Barker and splattered with brown, clumpy blood that has long since lost its capacity to carry oxygen.

A flush crawled up Molly's neck, staining her cheeks. "Sorry, I didn't mean to be curt. I, just, I. You startled me!"

"Perhaps if your face wasn't practically in her belly, you would have noticed my approach," Sherlock defended.

"I needed to see what I was doing!" Molly was now turned completely away from the corpse, focusing all of her attention on her husband.

Obvious. His wife's less than ideal eyesight wasn't a hard deduction, even John could figure it out. Molly had to hold her books and letters a hands length away from her face if she wished to make out the letters. Her writing desk, a gift from her father that was made for her specifically, had a high, slanted writing surface so that she could compose her letters without bending in half. If today proved that Molly was an asset in his work, he would have to rectify this deficiency.

Sherlock took advantage to swipe some oil under her nose, causing Molly to recoil and sneeze. "There. Now, we should get back to work."

Sherlock graciously ignored Molly's incredulously muttered, "We?"

Fortified with peppermint oil, Molly methodically examined Constance Barker's intestines, liver, and gall bladder, taking samples where necessary. She scooped out a small dark red mass and placed it in the silver disk to the side with a splat.

Sherlock bent down to examine it further. It looked to have the consistency of poorly set jelly, just barely holding on to its solid state of matter. Anatomy was never his area of interest, much preferring chemistry, geology and botany. "What is this? Some sort of clot?"

"Hmm," Molly replied in a distracted matter as she examined the already bisected stomach. "Nothing to be gained here." She returned the organ back to thorax. "What did you ask?"

"That." Sherlock pointed to the silver tray. "What is, or rather, was it?"

"Oh. That's her spleen. Could you hand me a syringe?"

"A syringe? What for?"

"Yes," Molly confirmed. "I want to see if there is any urine left to extract."

He looked down to see Molly holding a pale pink round bladder, flecked with thick yellow waxy globs of fat in her hands. Sherlock was a bit surprised that he was asked to play the role of the assistant, he hadn't had to do anything of the sort since his Cambridge days. Well, there wasn't anyone else in the lab, not that any of the assistants would help him, let alone a woman.

"Actually, if you could, grab two," Molly called as Sherlock searched the shelves for his goal. "I want to take some bile as well."

Sherlock handed Molly the syringe one at a time, watching her carefully extract the fluids she could. Samples obtained, she began replacing and rearranging the organs and spare tissue. "It's a pity I could not retrieve any stomach contents or blood." She frowned as she tried to tuck the duodenum under the liver. "I would have liked to test those as well. It's not Mr. Anderson's fault." Molly picked up a clamp and secured two skin folds together before picking up a threaded round needle to begin stitching. "Well, the blood isn't. The stomach contents are, though." She continued stitching until Constance Barker was reclosed, three large puckered false scars marking where she had been incised. Molly picked up her glass jars, containing her samples and handed them to her husband.

Sherlock gave Molly an incredulous look. While nowhere near the mess that coated her hands, her sample containers were far from clean and nothing that Sherlock wished to touch. Sherlock grabbed a somewhat clean rag off the empty adjacent autopsy table and dipped it in the basin of water that was just waiting to be used to clean his wife's hands. He used the rag as a barrier to grab the offered vials and cleaned them before placing them in Molly's carpetbag.

Molly took off her overlarge, borrowed apron and tossed it to the side. She wetted her hands in the cold water before dousing her hands with a carbolic acid solution and rinsing them. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that; he had not seen someone use cleaning solution to wash their hands before. Molly dried her hands on her skirt and turned to Sherlock with a smile. "I'm going to have to insist on some food before we start the lab work."

* * *

 

Molly was surprised at how quiet and still Sherlock was throughout her examination of Constance. She had expected more questions or fidgeting accompanied with demands that she hurry up. His almost docile actions were almost disorienting. Perhaps, he bowed to her superior knowledge of the human body?

Molly took another bite of her crumbly scone sandwich, savoring the salty ham and cold hard cheese. After only half a scone during the brief carriage ride to St. Bartholomew's, she was quite content to savor this snack. Calling it a meal would be far too generous. Molly picked a rather large crumb of scone off of her skirts and popped it in her mouth, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock. She hoped he was too entwined in his work to notice. It was horrible manners, but needs must sometimes. There was another sandwich left but she was hoping that she could convince her husband to eat it at some point. She did tell Mrs. Hudson she would try to make him eat.

Her husband was bouncing around the laboratory, collecting vials and testing strips as he went. While enjoyable, chemistry was never Molly's strongest subject. Sherlock more than made up for Molly's weaknesses, pausing only moments in his work to ask clarifying questions based on her notes. Her husband knew this lab just as well as he appeared to know the streets of London. As soon as he entered the room, he threw off his outer coat and sack coat, leaving him in his shirtsleeves and waistcoat.

Molly adjusted her skirts and turned to her husband. "Is there something I could do to help?"

Her initial awe of St. Bartholomew's laboratory with its gleaming clean wood, copious glass vials and shining metal tubing quickly wore away, leaving her bored. Perhaps if she assisted they could finish this up sooner.

"Start on the bile, if you please," Sherlock said as he continued crushing the liver between the mortar and pestle.

Molly cracked her neck and slid off the stool. The bile should be fairly straightforward. Reinsch's process should be more than adequate; it will be able to detect a fair number of toxic heavy metals.

Molly just finished carefully placing her sample of the bile in hydrochloric acid when the door opened. She glanced over her shoulder to see who was there but a shelf full of equipment obstructed her view.

"What are you doing here, Sherlock?"

Molly almost giggled at the question. The person who asked must be familiar with her husband, she thought, due to the weary long-suffering tone of his voice. She often heard Mrs. Hudson ask similar questions in the same way.

"About time you've shown up, Stamford. We've been here for hours." Sherlock cracked his knuckles, sending an involuntary shudder down Molly's spine. "As for what we're doing? Obvious, I should think. We're conducting tests. There's a woman in your mortuary who's been murdered. I'd like to see the killer punished, wouldn't you?"

Molly squinted at her husband. She didn't think that Sherlock truly gave a fig about seeing the killer brought to justice; he probably just wanted to show everyone he was right.

A sigh emitted from the man, Stamford, Sherlock had called him. "It's too early for this. Watson, if you need a drink after this case I am more than willing to accompany you."

"Watson isn't here," Sherlock corrected, turning to place the crushed liver sample in its own dish of acid.

"What? You said 'we.' Who else would be-oh!"

Molly gave Stamford a weak smile as he rounded the corner and into view. He wasn't a very tall man, though many people looked small standing next to Sherlock, with a round face. His kind wide eyes swam behind rounded spectacles. He stared at her, his mouth hanging open.

Molly tugged on Sherlock's shirtsleeve. "Introduce us."

"Oh." Sherlock glanced up. "Mrs. Holmes, Dr. Michael Stamford, head of Bartholomew's pathology. Stamford, my wife Mary Holmes. Happy?"

He didn't wait for a reply, already ensconced in his work of adding hydrochloric acid to the small urine sample.

Molly dropped a curtsey in reply to Stamford's shallow bow.

"I was unaware that Holmes was married."

Molly was not at all surprised. Their wedding was not the grand society affair that her mother had wanted. Molly appealed to her father to scale it down to something more subdued. Surprisingly, the Holmes family agreed that a large wedding was not something they wished for either. If Sherlock didn't tell him and Dr. Stamford didn't see their banns or announcement in the Times, there was no reason he would know. It's not as if they left for a prolonged period of time and went on a bridal tour as was en vogue.

She was both disappointed and relieved at the lack of a bridal tour. Her parents didn't do much travelling, as her father was obsessed with his business and her mother had a delicate constitution. Molly had always wanted to visit the French Riviera or travel about Italy. She wanted to know if the Mediterranean was truly as warm as bathwater. See the art of the Romans and the grandeur of medieval Italy. Visit the grand French villas and experience the lavender seas of Provence.

Molly was just wary of doing all that with her husband. A man she hardly knew. The idea of travelling alone with just the two of them and their servants was nerve racking. Before she was informed that Sherlock had absolutely no intention of leaving London for the continent, she entertained a variety of nightmare scenarios on what would unfold on their journey. The anticipated anxiety assuaged the disappointment of not taking a bridal tour. Best to get to know each other on more familiar territory before travelling as husband and wife.

Not that Molly expected a bridal tour to happen in the near future. Perhaps, just perhaps, when they've grown more accustomed to each other she could find a way to convince him to experience continental Europe with her. Maybe if she enlisted the help of Dr. and Mrs. Watson, it could be accomplished.

Molly put on her society smile. The one that conveyed that she wanted nothing more than to be where she was at this moment. "We were married just this November."

"Oh! Still newlyweds! How lovely. I'm sure he's a most attentive husband."

Molly kept smiling, unsure of how to answer.

Sherlock spoke up before she could develop the perfect non-answer. "Mrs. Holmes, your bile."

Molly looked at the container that had turned a murky shade of purplish black. "Oh my! Do excuse me." She nodded at Dr. Stamford before focusing her attention back to her test. Molly delicately picked up a small coil of copper with forceps and submerged it in the acid solution

A hissing sound drew her attention to her right. She gasped involuntarily at the sight of a flaming test tube.

The almost maniacal gleam in Sherlock's eye was quite disconcerting. He gave her an innocent look. "I'm merely creating a sulphuret."

"I am sure there is no need to use that much potash, that quickly."

"Of course there is, I'm impatient."

Molly gave a humph that was an almost uncanny impression of her Grandmother Tuck. She pulled out the copper and rinsed it with water. Adrenaline surged through her as she examined the blackened wire. They were right. Constance was poisoned with antimony.  _They were right._

Good heavens. She just helped solve a murder.

"Antimony!" she said, turning to face her husband.

Sherlock's mouth immediately curled up in an almost unholy grin. "Yes!" he cried, jumping up and down in his excitement. "She  _was_ murdered! I knew it! I knew it!" He laughed as he gave her a quick hug before turning to his test tube.

Molly stood there and blinked, still clasping the forceps. She could feel her face heat up in embarrassment and delight at his outburst.

Sherlock held up his test tube, smiling at the substance at the bottom of the tube. The acid and potash reaction had burnt away all organic material, leaving only the antimony residue.

"It could be arsenic."

The Holmeses looked at Stamford. Molly had forgotten about his presence. He was leaning against the shelf with an arched brow.

"Don't be stupid, Stamford. Arsenic isn't consistent with the body," Sherlock replied in derision. He dumped his sulphuret on the nearby balance. "One-tenth of a grain. That's one-quarter grain of tartar emetic."

"If there's that much in the urine, there must be a great amount in the liver," Stamford said. "I'll have one of the laboratory assistants retrieve the liver and determine the quantity. I would hazard that it would be about-"

"Four grains. More than enough to kill Constance Barker. Send runners to Scotland Yard and Baker Street with the results. I need to tell Lestrade."

* * *

 

"I said, 'No,' Holmes! If you wish to see the Inspector than you will wait until he is ready!"

"Honestly, Donovan! This is ridiculous."

Sally Donovan, Inspector Lestrade's secretary, clenched her jaw and glared at him before taking a deep breath. "What is this visit in reference to?"

"It is in reference," Sherlock said tightly, "to the murder of Constance Barker."

"Constance Barker wasn't murdered. Mr. Anderson's report found no signs of foul play," Sally said smugly. "You were wrong. It's all right, just admit it."

"Anderson is an idiot. Don't bother defending him," he continued when Sally opened her mouth to protest. "Just because he helped you find this position does not mean he is not an idiot. Honestly, you're smarter than that, kindly act like it. Mrs. Barker had high doses of antimony in her system, she was poisoned."

The secretary smoothed her dark blue skirts as she stood. "I will see if the Inspector is available. Wait here. I mean it, Holmes."

"I, as ever, aspire to do as you desire," Sherlock said with a smile.

Sally shot him a dark look before sweeping through a door to the back offices.

Sherlock immediately dropped the smile and sat down on the bench next to Molly.

Sherlock had to admit, his wife had been a good sport about today. Much better than John would have been, in fact. While John was undeniably more useful in the active sleuthing of cases, with his knowledge of both combat and fledgling powers of deduction, he was not keen on the quieter moments of casework. He was close to useless in the laboratory, sitting in a corner either complaining or snoring as Sherlock pondered and worked.

Molly was much more compliant and helpful. Besides a moment of protest when he hailed a hansom instead of a growler outside of Barts, she had been industrious in her assistance. Though she was obviously dismayed (uncharacteristically slouched posture, averted eyes, slack jaw, relaxed open hands) when he ordered the cab to Scotland Yard instead of Baker Street she didn't utter a word of protest. Though it was possible it was because of fatigue instead of docility. Obviously she would be completely incapable of assisting him on most of his cases but today combined with her performance at the Barker funeral lead him to think she could be quite the asset in his work. Woman always made good cover. Few men suspected them of any sort of intelligence and always did their best to impress and protect them. He eyed Molly as she attempted to stifle a yawn. No, she would never be a  _femme fatale,_ much too ordinary and honest but that in and of itself could be most beneficial in the future.

"She rules with quite the iron fist," Molly commented, the first thing she said to him in more than half an hour.

Sherlock murmured something he hoped sounded like an agreement. Sally Donovan was an irritating stickler for rules and protocol. She probably wouldn't be able to sleep at night if a 't' was left uncrossed or an 'i' was without it's dot.

A few minutes later Sally reemerged. "You may go back," she said as she retook her seat.

Sherlock nodded curtly and gestured for Molly to accompany him.

"Wait now, who's this?"

"My wife," Sherlock replied, taking delight in her open mouthed shock as he held the door open for Molly. Molly nodded at Sally with a weak smile in greeting before Sherlock ushered her through the door.

He threaded his way through the crowded desks of the Metropolitan Police with ease. Sherlock estimated that they would be expanding within the next decade due to lack of space. The main room should have been airy with its space and open windows. Instead the desks and cabinets crammed into such a way to maximize space just lent it an oppressive feel.

Sherlock didn't bother knocking on the door to Inspector Lestrade's office at the other side of the room, preferring to barge in.

"Holmes," Lestrade greeted wearily.

"I see you still have Donovan guarding your gates."

"Leave my secretary alone, please."

"Are you still insisting that she's just your secretary?" Sherlock asked with a raised eyebrow. Everyone at the Met knew that Sally was Lestrade's  _de facto_ lieutenant and while she was not able go out to crime scenes or patrol, she was involved with every case that crossed Lestrade's desk. A command from Sally was to be taken as an order from Lestrade, much to the discomfort of many the patrolmen.

"Formally, that's the only role she has. Now, what's this about the Barker case? And who is that behind you?"

Sherlock stepped aside to allow Molly in. Lestrade immediately leapt to his feet. Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was always one to play the gallant gentleman. "Mrs. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade. Lestrade, my wife."

"Ah, so this is the enigmatic Mrs. Holmes," Lestrade with a slight bow. "Here, have my seat, ma'am."

Sherlock's lips twisted at the flush that crawled up Molly's cheeks as she sat down in Lestrade's chair, murmuring her gratitude. Lestrade had just started to lighten up on prodding him about his wife; he was not looking forward to the remarks restarting. If it weren't for the fact that John made him leave a fascinating case for so that he could attend his wedding, Lestrade wouldn't have even known.

"As I was saying," Sherlock continued. If he was interrupted one more time in this case, he was going to do something far more drastic than pocketing Lestrade's badge. The case couldn't be closed until Lestrade bloody well did something about it and leering at his wife was not the something that needed to be done. "High doses of antimony were found in Mrs. Barker. She was murdered. Now will you do your job and get a warrant so you may  _finally_ search the house. Not that it will do any good, the husband has had more than enough time to be rid of the evidence. I can only hope he's as stupid as the Met!"

"I need a chemical report before I can do anything. You  _know_  that Holmes. A magistrate won't issue a warrant on just your word. I need  _something._ " Lestrade turned his attention away from Molly to face him.

"It could be another day before the testing is done!" Sherlock protested. Bureaucracy _._ Always restricting his furrowed his brow as he noticed Molly dipping Lestrade's pen in its ink well and bending nearly in half to scrawl something on a clean sheet of paper. How she even found a clean sheet of paper on the mess that was Lestrade's desk was beyond him.

"Then get me a preliminary report. I can work with that. Someone had to help you at Barts, just get them to write something up," Lestrade relented. "You know I trust you but the magistrate does not."

The magistrate, like many of the people Sherlock knew, thought that he was merely a bored son of a nobleman doing tricks to fill his day.

"If I finish writing up a report and Dr. Stamford signs this in verification, would that suffice?" Molly asked. Her paper was half filled with her tight, neat script.

Lestrade shot Sherlock a glance before leaning over the desk to scan her draft. "Uh, yes. I suppose this would work. How-?"

"My wife assisted me at Barts today since no one was available so early in the morning. Just as well, Watson is useless in the laboratory."

Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. He crossed his arms across his chest and pushed off the desk to stand just inches from Sherlock. "Really? Your  _wife_  helped you." His voice was rich in disbelief.

"Yes," Sherlock bit out, taking a step back. He had noticed the stiffening of Molly's posture as she continued to write and he did not like it. As if he would allow anyone less than completely competent to assist him. He had no time for people's egos and sense of self-esteem. "I assure you Mrs. Holmes is quite conversant in anatomy and chemistry."

"Anatomy? I thought you said she helped you in the lab."

"She did but we needed to obtain samples from Mrs. Barker first. Honestly, Lestrade, how else would we find the antimony in her body? By sneezing on it? Use your head." Sherlock smirked as he tapped the greying inspector on the forehead for emphasis.

"You made your wife cut up a woman? A woman who, you told me, was someone she knew?" Lestrade asked, his voice pitched low enough that Sherlock had to strain to hear him. "Damn it, man, don't you have any decency? A gently bred woman should not have to see that!"

"She has the education and the experience," Sherlock ground out in his defense. Perhaps there was a point about having Molly dissect someone with whom she was familiar in life; people did get so emotional when it came to death. However, Molly didn't say one word in objection. Point, him.

"Excuse me, but I'm finished," Molly chimed in, holding out two sheets of paper. "I also penned a note to Dr. Stamford to let him know my educational background and the names of my professors at the London School in case he wished to verify any information."

"You can just leave it on the desk, Mrs. Holmes. I'll have a runner send it over to Barts immediately. I hope this trip hasn't been too much of an inconvenience."

"No, not at all," Molly assured Lestrade with a smile. "It was nice to get out of the house and get my hands dirty again." Molly's eyes widened and her smile slipped off her face as she bit her lip. "Er, so to speak. I don't mean to say that I wanted, well I did, oh," she cut herself off.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I'll speak to the magistrate as soon as Stamford signs this. Will you be skulking about here, Holmes? Or should I send for you at Baker Street?"

"Baker Street," Sherlock answered immediately. "I need to retrieve my magnifying glass and send for Watson."

"And take your wife home, of course" the inspector added.

Sherlock glanced over at Molly who was busy staring at her hands. "Naturally."

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some historical notes
> 
> So why don't they have their own carriage?  
> It's cheaper. A ride in a cab would cost about a shilling for the first two miles (depending upon where you were) and six-pence (1/2 a shilling) for each additional mile. A carriage would cost about £132 pounds to purchase (not including the cost of a horse!) and about £200 for it and the horse's upkeep. That's 6,640 shillings for the first year with 4,000 each additional year! That's a lot of cab rides!
> 
> Sally's a secretary. Why?  
> The first female cop didn't join the Met until 1919 (this is discounting the Women Volunteer Police which was formed in 1914). Forty years is a little too much fudging for my comfort. I wanted to have as many familiar faces as possible in this story and I thought this was the best way to get her in. At first I toyed with her being an agent of Mycroft's who he set up as Molly's maid at Baker's Street who would be an informant for him and later protect his family (And the reason Sherlock disliked her was that he didn't figure it out for over a month) but I thought it seemed rather hokey and I could do better by her.
> 
> Holy shit she just washed her hands in acid:  
> Sanitation and germ theory was actually understood in 19th century, it just wasn't accepted. Dr. Semmelweis wrote a paper that the reason women were dying in childbirth was due to poor sanitation and everyone laughed. He was right. Physicians would give women pelvic exams during birth, perfectly normal except they wouldn't wash their hands beforehand. And it wasn't uncommon for them to come straight from the morgue or another patient. Semmelweis conducted an experiment where all the medical personnel had to wash their hands in an antiseptic solution (carbolic acid) before attending a patient. Puerperal Fever fatalities dropped by over 90%. The medical establishment's response could be boiled down to: Doctors are gentlemen, and gentlemen's hands are clean.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay! I can't promise that it won't happen again but I can promise that I will try to update sooner. There's just a lot on my plate right now that takes precedence.
> 
> Also, thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! I am so happy that you guys are enjoying the ride! Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I re-read your reviews constantly; they do not go unappreciated.
> 
> Much thanks to thatred-hairedgirl for looking this over! Without her, the tenses would be cocked up and this story would be lacking many definite and indefinite articles!

 

"...Considering the numerous times Mother has visited Aunt Young in Bath to take the waters, one would think she would realize that Bath does not cure all, or possibly any, ills. Though, I must say Mr. William Oliver's A  _Practical Dissertation on Bath-waters_  does make a compelling case on Bath's behalf. Where else can one be healed of their lumbago, gravel and stones of the kidneys, leprosy  _and_ diseases of women? Though I must take issue with his description of these 'maladies' (what exactly is green sickness? I confess I have re-read that passage numerous times and still do not know what it is. But rest assured that Bath water is the cure!), I also must agree with Mr. Oliver on his description of women as 'the most perfect of all the Creation!' …"

-A selection from an 1869 letter written by Mary Hooper (the future Viscountess Brackley) to her brother, Theodore Hooper. With special thanks to Henry Holmes, 14th Viscount Brackley.

Excerpt from  _Patients and Petticoats: Women and Medicine in Victorian England_ by Carol Yang

* * *

University College London Medical School Funding Opportunities

Scholarships available for these criteria.

Department: Division of Medicine

Level: Graduate Research

Availability: current and prospective students

Number of scholarships: 1

The Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology

Originally called the Molly Holmes Award, the Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology was established in 1880 for students of the London School of Medicine for Women. It was renamed in 1998 when the London School of Medicine for Women and the University College's Hospital Medical School merged to form UCL Medical School. It is one of the longest continuous funding opportunities in the country. Many of its awardees have gone on to become pioneers in the field of medicine.

Current award value is £10,000. It is awarded every year to a current pathology student based on their financial hardship and their coursework. While every current pathology student may apply, members of minority groups and women are especially encouraged to apply.

Click Here for Further Eligibility Details

Click Here For the History of the Lady Brackley Scholarship for Pathology

Related Results:

-The Lord Brackley Scholarship for Chemistry

-The Holmes Forensic Innovation Award

* * *

18 June 1879

"Oh, my dear Dr. Watson! You are looking quite well!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed as Bentley took his hat and walking stick.

"My wife takes good care of me," John assured his former housekeeper, dropping a kiss on her cheek.

"I'm sure she does." Her voice dropped down to a whisper. "She is so good for you, I'm so glad you married her."

John tried to repress a smile as he heard Mary stifle a giggle behind him. His wife has the sharpest ears of anyone he has ever met; much to her pupils' dismay he was sure. He learned early on in his marriage to never mumble under his breath as she was sure to make out every word.

"I have to go check on supper but I'll have one of the girls bring you some tea. The front sitting room has been made ready."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. It is rather warm outside," Mary replied, coming up to take John's elbow as they made their way to the front sitting room.

Sherlock came loping in just moments after the tea service arrived. He threw himself down in the chair opposite Mary and sighed.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Holmes," Mary said pointedly as she poured him a cup of tea, adroitly adding Sherlock's favored milk and one lump of sugar.

Sherlock straightened from his slump and grunted out a noise before grabbing his teacup and saucer.

John rolled his eyes as his friend's antics. Sherlock was not pleased at the idea of a dinner party in his house, despite the fact that the guest list was limited to just his best friend and his wife.

"How is the lady of the day?" Mary asked.

"Changing. Afternoon tea with her parents ran over. How two unimaginably dull people could produce a daughter of some use is absolutely baffling."

John grimaced at Sherlock's description of his wife. While Sherlock admitting that someone was useful was high praise indeed, he had hoped that the consulting detective would employ some higher praise or affection for Mrs. Holmes. He was probably being unrealistic in his expectations of his eccentric friend's marriage but he couldn't help but hope.

"Well," Mary said as the silence started to grow too long, "we brought a small gift for Molly. Do you think we should give it to her before or after dinner?"

Sherlock shrugged and took a sip of his tea.

Mary glanced at her husband who shook his head in exasperation. "I suppose after dinner is a more appropriate time."

"Most likely. Especially considering you purchased eating chocolates." Sherlock gestured to the box next to Mary. "If you give it to her after dinner, there is a better likelihood of everyone participating in the gift as my wife will insist on sharing. Foolish of her, really. She adores eating chocolates, she should just keep them for herself."

John blinked at his friend. While Sherlock deduced everything, to an extent, he usually did not go into such detail over something as mundane as his wife's birthday gift.

He really must be bored.

"Well, what did you give Mrs. Holmes?" John asked.

"I? I didn't give her anything." Sherlock placed his cup and saucer on the table before leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock," Mary sighed. "Nothing at all?"

The raven-haired detective slowly opened his eyes, a look of uncertainty growing on his face. "My wife didn't give me anything for mine. I thought gifts were not something she wished to do."

"But she did arrange to have your favorite meal made for supper," Mary pressed.

John suppressed a smirk at Sherlock's look of annoyance. One day, he'll learn that their wives shared most everything and forgot almost nothing.

"Mrs. Holmes and Mrs. Hudson handle the meal planning." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, sighed and got out of his chair.

"Where are you going?" John asked as Sherlock made his way to the door.

"Apparently, I need to obtain some sort of gift!"

"Surely it could wait until another time," Mary protested. "We will be eating soon!"

"Don't wait on dinner, then." And with that he was gone.

"Should I go after him?"

Mary sighed. "Best not. We'll just have to make the best of it. I think the both of you being gone will be more awkward than-"

"Good evening!" Molly walked into the sitting room, a smile on her face, causing John to leap to his feet. The pale pink brocade of her gown brought out the rosiness of her cheeks. Her smile faded slightly as she scanned the room. "Has my husband not greeted you yet?"

"He was called away, but he'll be back promptly. I'm sure of it." Mary stood up and gave her friend a reassuring embrace.

John could just see Molly's sad eyes and resigned expression over his wife's shoulder.

Molly pulled away and gave the Watsons a weak smile. "I'm sure that it is a matter of great importance. Though…"

"Though?" Mary prompted.

"Nothing," Molly whispered. "Just…perhaps I set my hopes too high, to expect his company at tea and dinner in one day."

John shifted uncomfortably at her barely hidden distress. Should he tell her why Sherlock left? Would that make things better? But what if he told her and Sherlock returned empty handed? Surely that would just add to her disappointment. Perhaps he should hold his tongue for now. Besides, it felt a bit like tattling, saying that Sherlock didn't think to obtain some sort of present. One had to cover for friends, especially in situations like these.

Yes, he'll stay silent for now. He could always speak up later if needed.

* * *

Sherlock returned by the third course, taking his seat at the head of the table as if he hadn't just missed half of dinner.

The moment he sat down, the tight, strained smile that Molly had worn previously relaxed into a more pleasant expression.

The rest of dinner continued without incident, the undercurrent of tension relieved by the return of the host. Sherlock did not contribute much to the dinner conversation, but John honestly did not expect him to do so.

"This was a fabulous meal." John resisted the urge to lick his plate. The lemon balm cake with custard sauce was absolutely fantastic. The rich almost woody lemon balm was complimented by the slight zip of lemon. The rum in the custard sauce just added to the dish.

"I'll make sure to relay your compliments to Cook," Molly assured him with a smile. "Should we adjourn to the sitting room? We have a new bottle of port, aged 15 years or brandy if you so prefer."

"I must defer the port until another time."

"And the brandy," Mary cut in. John glared at his wife. Honestly, he was a  _doctor_ he knew his limitations. Mary raised an eyebrow, challenge gleaming in her eyes, when he opened his mouth to protest.

"And the brandy," John conceded. Perhaps it was best not to fight her this one time. One awkward couple was more than enough at a dinner party.

"Tea, then," Molly declared, rising from her chair.

John hurriedly stood and took his wife's arm to escort her to the sitting room, casting a quick glare at Sherlock for sighing dramatically.

"Molly, dear. We brought you a small present to mark the occasion," Mary said after the quartet settled in the sitting room.

"Oh Mary, you didn't have to do that."

"We wanted to." Mary passed the pastel green floral box to her friend.

"Oh! Eating chocolates! How wonderful. Thank you, Mary. Thank you, Dr. Watson."

"Our pleasure, Mrs. Holmes." John smiled at Molly's happiness at such a small present. He should have trusted Mary when she said that eating chocolates were Molly's weakness.

Sherlock stood up, stretched, before going to pull the cord to summon a servant.

Molly tilted her head and narrowed her eyes slightly.

Bentley arrived within seconds with a hatbox in his hands. His mouth was twisted as if he smelt a foul odor, which was quite unlike the usually stoic butler. The butler handed Sherlock the box, nodded before withdrawing with almost comical haste.

Sherlock placed the box on Molly's lap. "My felicitations on surviving yet another year."

"But isn't this one of my hat bo-oh!" Molly cut herself off as the box moved. She cast an uneasy look at her husband before slowly opening up the box, her hands slightly shaking. She gasped loudly and covered her mouth when she peered inside.

John could barely contain a groan. What the devil did Sherlock buy?

Molly squeaked, her hands still covering her mouth. Sherlock shifted uneasily in his chair.

"Molly?" Mary asked. "Are you well?"

"It's adorable!" Molly reached into the box and pulled out a tiny ginger point kitten. It gave a short high-pitched mew. "Oh! Look at you! You're absolutely precious." The kitten just managed to fit into her small hands. "Where on earth did you obtain him?" Molly asked, holding the cat to her face where it immediately started to nuzzle her chin.

"Wiggins brought him to my attention. The mother was killed by a cart and this was the only surviving kitten. I brought him here to be cleaned up."

"Oh, poor little love! Don't worry, we'll take excellent care of you. Oh, yes we will!" Molly dropped a kiss on the kitten's head.

"It's a cat, Mrs. Holmes, it can't worry." Sherlock's derisive comment was attenuated by the self-satisfied look on his face. He slumped back in his chair, completely relaxed.

John gave Sherlock an approving nod; his friend did quite well. Though he had to admit he was a little jealous that Sherlock thought of and obtained a perfect gift so quickly for his wife. It always took him weeks to figure out presents for his Mary.

"He is quite sweet, isn't he darling?" Mary reached forward to stroke the cat's back.

John gave a mild smile. He never warmed up to cats. Not only because he preferred dogs but because Grandmother Fletcher owned the largest and meanest cat that would torment him as a child. It would pounce on him from high atop shelves and then dig his ludicrously sharp claws into his skin as he tried to maintain his footing. "Is it a he?"

Sherlock shrugged at the question.

John rolled his eyes, not surprising that Sherlock didn't know or care about the sex of his gift.

The kitten let out an indignant squawk as Molly lifted its tail. "It's a little early to be certain, but I believe it is male."

"He needs a name. Perhaps we can start a tradition and name him Melbourne?" Mary gave her husband a knowing look. John didn't rise to the bait, he knew she didn't like that Gladstone was named Gladstone, much preferring a more regal name like Ambrosius for their bulldog. Gladstone, however, was not a regal dog. He was an overfed, drool-ridden, extraordinarily dim, affectionate, perfect rascal.

Mrs. Holmes covered her mouth to suppress her giggles, the kitten curled up in her lap, eyeing his new home suspiciously.

"I don't know. I think I would prefer Wellington?" Molly asked.

"Nonsense! He's clearly a Palmerton!" John smiled as he entered the naming fray.

"What the devil are you all talking about?"

"Holmes!" John reprimanded. Honestly, there were ladies present.

His friend rolled his eyes in acknowledgment.

"We're suggesting names for the kitten." Molly focused her attention on the kitten as she spoke.

" _Obviously._ The names are ridiculous. Palmerton? Melbourne? Where are these names coming from?"

"They're prime ministers?" Molly cast an uncertain look at the Watsons.

"Oh. Dull and completely unimportant." Sherlock waved his hand, as if to clear the air.

"Yes, as unimportant as knowing the authors of  _Macbeth_ and  _The Canterbury Tales._ "

Sherlock gave John a poisonous look at his jab.

"Perhaps we should name him after who found him? Did you say it was a Wiggins who found him?" Molly cut in, her tone overly bright.

"No. Wiggins merely told me of his existence. Another boy, Tobias, found him."

"That's a fine name. Don't you think Molly?"

Mrs. Holmes gave the sprawled sleeping kitten a critical once over. "It's a bit cumbersome for such a small creature. I think Toby would be better." She stroked the kitten's body with the back of her finger. "Yes, Toby."

* * *

1 July 1879

"Stop it, Toby," Molly admonished as the feline batted at her pen for the seventh time. The cat adored either sleeping on her lap or sitting on her desk as she worked, not content to be away from his mistress. As the cat grew and was able to maneuver stairs and other obstacles more quickly, he became Molly's little shadow following her from room to room. He even wormed his way into her bedroom at night so he could curl up next to her, much to Sherlock's annoyance.

Her husband only visited her chambers once a week and usually occupied himself by reading; scribbling in his notebook, getting ink all over her bed linen in the process; pestering her by thinking aloud about a case; and on occasion actually sleeping. Since that one night, nearly nine months ago, he hadn't touched her or implied that he wished to do so. Molly had to admit that while she was confused, she wasn't entirely overwrought by his actions. Perhaps in the future she'll change her mind but for now she was quite content with the current arrangement.

Though some of that contentment had eroded away by the constant power struggle between her husband and her pet. Too often her husband kicked or shook her awake so that she would, 'take care of this blasted animal. I can't think when he demands my attention so!'

Molly grabbed one of her steel pencils and tossed it on the rug, sending Toby scurrying after his new prey. Perhaps now she'll be able to concentrate.

Her husband had requested, well more like demanded, that she review several post mortem reports of a string of poisoning victims. He still didn't trust Anderson's ability to conduct a proper post mortem, even though the majority of times he appeared to do an adequate and thorough job. On the occasion where Molly thought an analysis needed to be conducted or had a theory on cause of death, Sherlock would hail a cab and spirit her to Bart's in the dark of the night. Dr. Stamford found Molly charming and gave the couple his tacit permission to view corpses, since Sherlock already had free reign of the laboratory, as long as they did so during off hours.

This case was different. Interesting cases always whipped her husband into an almost frenzied state but this one had an added twist that sent him bordering on mania.

Shortly after their marriage, Molly discovered that Ormond Sacker of the popular serial  _Mysteries and Crime: Or Adventures of a Detective and a Doctor_ fame was a pseudonym for Dr. Watson where he recounted his and Sherlock's adventures.

In recent months, bodies had been appearing throughout London in a remarkably similar fashion as the crimes detailed in Dr. Watson's first publication,  _A Study in Scarlet._  Her husband jumped up in glee at the thought of a copycat killer. Though his amusement lessened once Dr. Watson declared that this case absolutely  _must_ be called,  _A Study in Pink_  once it was resolved, both as homage but because the victims had blood in their spittle, turning it pink _._  Molly and Mary agreed whole-heartedly, despite Sherlock's protests that the title would cheapen his description of the scarlet thread of murder.

She stretched and pushed her spectacles back up her nose before returning to the reports. The day after Reginald Barker was arrested, her husband dragged her to an oculist to be fitted for a pair of spectacles. Sherlock declared her to be more useful than anticipated and therefore needed her to be at her best, including having the best eyesight. Even though the eyeglasses were delicate and near invisible, Molly tended to reserve their use for reading, writing, and working.

A slight cough brought her attention to the door.

"Yes, Bentley?" she asked, without turning about. None of the other members of their staff tried to gain her attention by coughing.

"A visitor for you, ma'am."

Molly dipped her pen in the ink well and continued to annotate the reports. "I'm not at home. You may leave the calling card on the sideboard, thank you."

"If I may be so bold, ma'am…" Bentley didn't finish his sentence, causing Molly to turn to him. Bentley never interrupted except, well, she couldn't think of a time where he did interrupt. He stood there, silver platter in hand with a delicate calling card placed on it.

Molly sighed and motioned for him to come to the desk. She picked up the pink floral card, smudging it with her ink stained gloves. She froze the moment she read the name. "Admit her at once."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Have a tea service brought. With biscuits. Ginger, if we have it. Shortbread, if we don't."

"Very good, ma'am." Bentley gave a short bow and turned to leave, just barely avoiding Toby as he raced across the room after his pencil prize.

Molly leapt from her chair, nearly tripping on the hem of her dress in her rush to look in the mirror. She quickly tidied her appearance, shucking off her ink stained gloves and tucking away loose hairs. Her eyeglasses were discarded on her desk and she furiously rubbed at the indentations on her nose and pinched her cheeks for some color.

Content that she was presentable, Molly strolled out of the room, closing the door behind her. She winced as Toby immediately began to scratch and cry at the door. It couldn't be helped. It would not do to have Toby come along.

Why on earth was she here? It had been months since her visitor stepped foot inside the Holmes's Baker Street residence. If Molly's presence was required, she was summoned to Mayfair.

_Oh God, what if someone was ill? Or dead?_

She fixed what she hoped was a pleasant smile to her face and walked slowly into the sitting room.

"Mother."

"Mary, my love!" The baubles bounced wildly on the toffee colored visiting dress her mother wore as she jumped up and enveloped her daughter in a tight embrace.

Even though Elizabeth Hooper was not a tall woman by any measure, her daughter never managed to surpass her in height. Molly returned her mother's embrace warily. One never knew exactly what accouterments would be hidden on the Hooper matriarch's clothes. She hoped a quick hug would suffice but her mother had other ideas, crushing her daughter to her.

Molly tried to suppress a sigh as her face was buried in her mother's collar, causing the adornments to scratch her face. She had resorted to blowing small puffs of air to keep the mustard fringe from going up her nose when her mother finally released her.

"You look well my dear! Though your dress is horribly out of fashion."

Molly glanced down at her simple cream day dress. Didn't she just visit the dressmaker for this outfit?

"You need to let me take you shopping more often, my dear. Look at this dress!" Her mother twirled, the fringes sewn all along the hems whirled wildly, like cattails in the wind. "Fresh from Paris!"

Molly smiled indulgently at her mother. Mrs. Hooper had always loved clothes and fabrics. Buying them, designing them, dressing people up, redecorating the house. All of it made her extremely happy. She spent hours pouring over fabrics and lady's magazines looking for the latest fashion trends or inspiration. Molly's earliest memories were of sitting on the floor of her mother's retiring room with a lady's magazine in her hand, carefully ripping out the designs her mother told her to find.

"You know, I do not keep track of fashion. I need you to dress me," Molly teased, easing her mother down onto the burgundy Queen Anne sofa. It was true; her mother had always selected her clothes, as if she were her doll. Perhaps she'll have Annie take her measurements tonight and send them along to her mother along with a list of restrictions. Never again would she wear a feathered gown because it was the next trend.

Bentley slipped into the room and efficiently arranged the tea service before disappearing again.

Mrs. Hooper sighed dramatically, a smile playing on her lips. "I suppose I can find it in my schedule to accompany you."

Molly fixed their cups of tea, adding the precise amount of cream and sugar. "You did not come all the way to Baker Street to critique my dresses and show off yours, did you?"

"No, I did not." Elizabeth Hooper took a delicate sip of her tea before placing it back onto her saucer. "The season has come to a close and I am off to Bath for a time. Possibly two months, maybe until the season begins again."

"Visiting Aunt Young?"

"Yes, her gout is acting up again."

"I'm sorry to hear that. She should endeavor to eat a more healthful diet and utilize a juniper compress. I don't believe spending hours soaking in hot water and then cold has been helping."

Mrs. Hooper hummed noncommittally. "Your aunt will never stop indulging in her sweets and her drink, you know this."

Molly dipped her head in agreement. "Well, I will know to forward my letters to Aunt Young's house."

"About that," Mrs. Hooper paused and set her teacup and saucer on the tea service. "Have I told you about Bertha Grafton's niece?"

Molly furrowed her brow. "No, you have not." Molly also couldn't remember who the devil Bertha Grafton was but hopefully that wouldn't be pertinent to the conversation. Chances were it was some high in step member of the  _ton_ that Molly  _should_ know.

"Bertha Grafton's niece visited Bath last year. Spent nearly everyday in the spas, taking the waters. She was married, oh five years ago now, without any sign of a child. Well, she welcomed a son in April. A fat little thing, honestly but quite healthy."

Molly froze, she hoped she had misinterpreted her mother's not so subtle insinuation. "Mother-"

"It's been almost a year-"

"Nine months," Molly interrupted.

"And you have not conceived once," She continued on, ignoring her daughter. "Not even a possibility that you may have conceived. I'm concerned, darling."

Molly picked at one of the buttons lining the front of her dress. Was there a delicate way to tell one's mother that she was not intimate with her husband? "My husband has not shown…concern over the lack of children."

She glanced at her mother, willing her to understand the relationship she and her husband had.

"He may not now," her mother conceded. "But once he inherits the viscountcy, Mr. Holmes will realize the importance of an heir. You're getting older, my love. If you wait until he catches up with the rest of us, you may be past your childbearing years. Men don't always think of the future, it's our role to do it for them."

"I'm only thirty! Women have given birth well into their fifth decade."

"Safely?"

"Childbirth is a risk no matter the age," Molly countered. The few times she was in the birthing ward during her time at The London School taught her that. It was a bittersweet place full of life and death. Nearly half of the women, poor women who could afford no better, did not leave alive, succumbing to infection.

"That is true," Elizabeth conceded. "But come to Bath with me anyway. I hardly see you anymore. We could go shopping and take the waters. It'll be a lovely holiday."

Molly bit her lip. Her mother could be a bit of a silly scatterbrain at times but Molly did miss her. Elizabeth had a subtle sharp wit and loved to make people happy. Molly's mother may not share her interest in science and education but she tried to understand her daughter, even if she did not support her.

Also, it was strange to go from seeing her everyday to only seeing her perhaps once a fortnight. If it had been earlier in the summer, Molly would have agreed to spend some time in Somerset but now, it would not be possible. "I'm afraid I have made other commitments."

"For months?" Mrs. Hooper raised an eyebrow the same way she did when Molly was young and blamed the missing pudding on mice.

Molly looked her mother straight in the eye. "I'm returning to school next term."

Mrs. Hooper went as still as a statue. Just when Molly was about to ask her mother if she was well, she moved, gently placing her cup and saucer on the service. "Why?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why are you returning to school?"

Molly blinked. Wasn't it obvious why she wanted to return to school? "I wish to complete my education."

"I have seen your marriage contract, in fact I wrote some of it myself." The older woman tactfully ignored her daughter's stunned look. "Returning to school would not be easy on your finances, considering the bulk of your dowry is controlled by the viscount."

"But feasible," Molly argued. Sherlock didn't give a fig about their ledger as long as there was a roof over their heads and money to support his myriad of habits and lifestyle.

"Say you do return to school and complete it. What would you do with your education? Surely you are not going to go into practice. You are married to a future peer; it is completely unseemly. In addition," she continued loudly, cutting off her daughter before she could manage to fit a word in. "Wouldn't it be more rational to give your place to someone who will actually utilize her skills?"

Molly's mouth shut with an audible snap. Honestly, she had never thought of that. Perhaps it was selfish of her to be educated for her own edification. It was unlikely that she would ever join a practice after she graduated. Even before her life was overturned all those months ago, she had never planned to join a practice. The living were of minimal interest to her. If providing solace and easement of suffering to the ill was her desire, Molly would have become a nurse. She had toyed with the idea, in the early days when she would stay up late reading contraband textbooks and sketching out her spinster life. No, she had no interest, or talent if she was honest with herself, in the patient beyond researching their ailment. Molly wanted their blood, their sera, pieces and parts of their bodies and organs to unwind the mysteries that plagued them. She wanted to methodically examine every bit of a corpse, both inside and out, to learn the secrets the dead tried to take with them.

Her plans were to worm her way into a hospital, most likely Royal Free as they had accepted her and her fellow pupils to conduct their clinical training, and spend her day in its underbelly.

But now…now she had a sinking suspicion that any hospital she wished to find employment would be barred to her. Sherlock may not care what she did with her time, so long as she was available to assist him when he desired it, but her brother-in-law certainly did. Lord Brackley made it no secret that beyond her substantial dowry, her only value was in producing the next generation of Holmeses.

For someone with desire to marry, Mycroft Holmes was quite interested in seeing the Holmes line continue.

"I just want to learn," Molly whispered, staring at her teacup.

Elizabeth Hooper gently took the teacup from her daughter's hands and placed it on the tray. "I know, my darling. You always had an insatiable mind, even as a child." She chuckled slightly. "You nearly gave me a fit of apoplexy when you tried to crawl into the quagga cage because you wanted to see if its fur felt the same as your pony's."

Molly lips twitched in remembrance. "I was so angry when the zookeeper pulled me out."

"Oh you were a she-devil in toddler form!" Nostalgia and fondness were thick in Mrs. Hooper's voice, softening her statement. "There is nothing wrong with learning, my love. Perhaps though you may consider forgoing formal education and consider autodidactism since I know you refuse to take interest in more seemly topics."

"Maybe," Molly muttered noncommittally.

A soft cough came from the doorway, followed by an "excuse me, ma'am."

"Yes, Bentley?"

"A note for you ma'am, from Mr. Holmes."

Molly gestured at the table. "Thank you, Bentley."

The butler placed the silver tray on the table and quickly withdrew.

"Go ahead, dear."

Molly nodded in acknowledgement and opened up the hastily folded note bearing a messy scribble that was theoretically her name.

_Your assistance is required at St. Bartholomew's._

_Come at your earliest convenience._

_Yours etc._

_SH_

_If now is inconvenient, come anyway._

Molly's lips thinned in annoyance. It would serve him right for her not to come for several hours. Or at all. She was not a dog or servant to come when called.

But he would be unbearable if she did so. Her pride was not worth the hours of sleep lost to him scratching away at his violin or his dark sulking about the house.

"My apologies mother, my husband requests my presence."

Her mother's eyebrows shot up. " _Requests?"_

The younger woman pursed her lips, in attempts to suppress a smile. Sherlock avoided socializing with her parents as much as possible but their limited interactions left them with a distinct impression of his character.

"Well. I say request…" Her voice trailed off.

"I suppose I'll be off then. Think about coming down to Bath, if only for a short time. I hardly see you anymore. Your absence from Alderly is…palpable."

"I'll consider it," Molly promised.

* * *

"May I ask what this has to do with the Study in Pink victims?"

Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across his brow before turning to his wife. "Are we still calling it that?"

Molly shrugged as she loosened the strings of her bonnet. "I quite like it."

The detective rolled his eyes and turned back to the corpse he so recently cropped. "This is for a different case. I need you to tell me what bruises form in the next twenty minutes."

"Is that Mr. Thomas?" His wife bent down, getting a closer look at the deceased's face.

"Yes. No family. Donated body."

"Oh, how unfortunate. I quite liked him, he was always so nice to me." She sighed as she straightened and slipped her spectacles on her nose.

"Well, his loss, our gain."

His wife glared at him before opening up her notebook. "Next twenty minutes you said?"

"Yes. Man's alibi depends on it." Sherlock gathered his overcoat and samples, intent on making his way to the laboratory to conduct a few analyses on the green scrapings he found under the victim's fingernails. "I'll be in the laboratory."

"How is the pink case progressing? You haven't mentioned it recently."

Sherlock's lips curled in disgust. "It's not. Lestrade calls me too late to the scene and his poor excuse for officers trample over every bit of evidence."

"Well, hopefully there will be a break soon."

Sherlock hummed in agreement and swept from the morgue. The laboratory was quiet at this time of day. Well, this laboratory was usually quiet, no matter what time of day but in the late afternoon it was even more placid. Few workers at Barts were allowed to work in this laboratory. Part of it was their lack of knowledge on the new and quite expensive equipment. Though it also appeared that he was another reason for their absence. The workers tended to avoid him.

Which was fine. They just distracted him or ruined his work. Stamford was the only tolerable employee that Barts had on staff.

After other tests failed to produce any illuminating results, Sherlock pulled out the Geissler tube and activated it. The paint chips from the victim's brother's green ladder remained dull even after Sherlock tugged down the curtains and turned off the gaslights in the laboratory.

Interesting. The paint did not contain linseed oil, how unusual. Sherlock opened up the glass vial that contained the paint from under the victim's fingernails.

Dull. Not a bit of glow to be seen.

No linseed oil.

Could be a coincidence but the universe is rarely so lazy.

Sherlock went to the door, intent on finding a street scamp to run to Scotland Yard with his results. He opened the door and ran right into his wife, causing her to let out a frightened yelp.

Sherlock immediately grabbed her shoulders to steady her.

"Oh my goodness," Molly muttered. "Thank you."

"Do you have the results?"

Amazing how a woman nearly a foot smaller than him could glare down over her glasses. "Of course." She held out a scrap of paper detailing her notes.

"Ah, excellent! Two down in one day. Now I just need to fetch my riding crop."

Molly's voice stopped him before he was more than a few meters away. "Listen, I was wondering…"

Sherlock spun on his heel to face his wife. Odd, she was fiddling with her bonnet worrying the ribbons over and over between her fingers. He looked his wife over from head to toe, trying to find some indication for her sudden hesitation. There was nothing out of the ordinary, save what appeared to be brown crumbs caught in the lace of her cuff. Well, that was new since he left her in the mortuary. "Did you just eat ginger biscuits?"

Molly stared dumbly at him for a moment before responding. "Uh, yes. They were left over from tea."

"Oh." What were the chances that she still had some biscuits in her reticule? He found himself suddenly starving. "You were saying?"

"Tonight, did you want to have coffee?"

"Yes, I do. Have it sent to my study after supper with sugar." Sherlock grinned in thanks before heading back towards the morgue.

"Oh. Very well."

* * *

"I would like us to discuss something."

"Move you damned animal." Sherlock shooed Toby away from his side of the bed. Toby let out an annoyed meow before jumping onto Molly's lap. Molly immediately began stroking the demanding feline. "What did you want to discuss?"

"Yes… um. What do you think of children?"

Sherlock went as still as a statue. Only moments after their exchange at St. Bartholomew's, it dawned on him that his wife wanted to talk to him over coffee, and was not just being a thorough homemaker. But he never thought procreation would be the topic of conversation. "Children?"

He shouldn't be surprised at the question. In truth, he was wondering when she would bring up the subject. All women wanted children, correct? And one of the reasons Mycroft pushed for this marriage was for his brother to beget an heir to the Brackley title.

Molly ducked her head, her face slowly turning bright red in mortification. "M-my mother called today and well…"

Sherlock flopped down on the pillows with a growl of annoyance. He should have known. Molly doesn't take biscuits with her tea unless she had a caller. She preferred ludicrously tiny sandwiches instead. "And she wants grandchildren. I'm surprised she managed to hold off badgering you for so long. I wouldn't be surprised if your mother had names chosen already."

"It's not just my mother," Molly turned to face him, ready to defend her mother from any complaints. "Your mother  _and_ your brother have expressed the same sentiments. They've just been more subtle about that."

"Ah yes. Must carry on the great Holmes line." Sherlock sneered in disgust. As if it  _mattered_  if his family died out. It wouldn't harm anybody if they were the last Holmes. He didn't know why his family cared. They'd be dead.

The crackling of the fire and the rumble of Toby's purr were the only sounds for quite some time.

"I thought you were going to return to school."

"I was. I thought better of it."

"Meaning your mother told you not to do it."

"I didn't change my mind because my mother told me to do so," Molly replied hotly. "I would think it is obvious I don't always do as my mother wishes. But she did make a compelling argument not to return. It's not as if I would have more opportunities to employ my skills if I returned to school. Another woman would benefit more than I."

"Your knowledge would be beneficial to me and my work. And I'm the only person in this city with any ability and sense to solve crimes."

Molly snorted. "How humble." She captured Toby's ear between her fingers and began to rub it, increasing the volume of his purring. "You're so shameless Tobias Holmes," Molly scolded. "I did consider your work but the classes I have left to complete are not in the area of pathology, besides one advanced laboratory class. And I have a plan to complete that one."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, wordlessly encouraging her to continue.

"I am planning on taking the money I put aside for my tuition and set up a continuous scholarship for women who wish to study medicine. I'll make it a condition that in return I will be able to sit in on any class I desire. I'm going to compose a letter to my brother in the morning to handle the details. He can be quite merciless when it comes to negotiations."

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure he believed that claim. His few encounters with Theodore Hooper reminded him of Gladstone. Brawny, fiercely loyal, and not especially bright. Though, Theodore did not drool nearly as much as Watson's bulldog. Sherlock did have to give his brother-in-law that.

"Well if that is what you wish to do," Sherlock said with a shrug. Her going back to school didn't truly affect his life. In the past few months Sherlock had found his wife's assistance to be more than adequate. Molly would be a valuable asset to him even without further education.

"It is, I think."

"You not going back to school. Is it because you want children?" Sherlock steered the conversation back to the original topic. If he was going to be called upon to become a father, he would like as much warning as possible.

Molly shook her head, her long braid swinging behind her like a snake. "No. It's not."

If her decision not to go back to school wasn't based on wanting children, did that mean she didn't want children? Or did it mean that regardless of what she did, she wanted children? Molly's thought processes were usually easy to follow but he found himself at a loss. "So, do you wish to have children?"

"I never thought about it." Molly answered. "When I was younger I assumed I would because, well, that's what women do, right? Then when I reached spinsterhood I assumed that I wouldn't have children unless I adopted some orphan. I never truly thought about whether I actually wanted to have a child. I don't think I am opposed to the idea but I don't find myself longing for one."

"Well considering fatherhood would not change my lifestyle much, I do not care if we do or do not have children." He would go on as usual, perhaps peeking in on the child occasionally to see if it did anything worthwhile. It's not as though children did much. They were drooling blobs of flesh and need that lie about until becoming drooling blobs of flesh and need that sat about.

Sherlock knew he would not at all be like his father. Robert Holmes was terrible with finances and a more than a bit gullible when it came to speculation schemes his friends would talk him into but Robert Holmes loved his children. He was not content to see them once a day for inspection, preferring to interrupt their schooling for playtime or to take them out exploring the estate. He would teach them how to ride and shoot a gun, not a tutor. Robert personally took his sons to Harrow each year in order to spend one last day with them. Subjecting them to long talks on the history of the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway. His father had always loved trains.

Sherlock long came to terms that he would never be as good a man as his father. He could be keener and savvier than his father but never better. He could not see him doing the same sort of parenting as his father did. Certainly not as well, if he even had the desire to attempt it.

Molly though. Molly would be an involved mother. They would hire a nurse and later a governess, surely. Her assistance would still be needed at Barts and someone would have to watch the child. But Molly would make sure to be part of her child's life. A child would change Molly's life far beyond the nine-month gestation required by her.

"Well. I guess that is that," Molly said, unsurely. "Y-you'll let me know if you change your mind, correct?"

"Have I ever not spoken my mind?"

"Well there you have me, Mr. Holmes, there you have me."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No truly interesting historical notes this time! Unless you want to know about the London, Brighton and South Coast Railway, Geissler tubes, calling cards, or Victorian coffee and dinner party habits!
> 
> Oh! A quagga was an actual animal; I did not just make it up. You should do a search for a picture of one. I think they are quite cute! Well, were cute. They've been extinct for some time.
> 
> I do know what happened in Study in Scarlet but I'm probably going to play fast and loose with it later on. Rest assured errors are not due to lack of knowledge!
> 
> This chapter may seem a bit filler but trust me, I wouldn't write as much as I did if at least some of it was not worth it.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Long time no post on this story. I wanted to get Wethern's Law finished up before working on this one and once I finished WL this chapter gave me a terrible time.
> 
> So, I'm sorry. I can't promise faster posting now that I am deep in dissertation work but I will try. Though I said that last time soo….
> 
> As always, I want to thank you so much to those that read, reviewed, favorited, kudos-ed, etc! You guys and your feedback are what keep me going and from just throwing in the towel. Please continue to let me know what you think, I appreciate the time you guys take out to read and write reviews. I re-read your reviews constantly; they do not go unappreciated.
> 
> Major kudos for Lexie for looking this over. Because of her this chapter is not only better but the helping verbs also have action verbs associated with them. Always a plus! Thank you, dear!

 

* * *

 

"...was reported that Jefferson Hope died in police custody shortly after committing the murders of Drebber and Standerson allegedly due to his aortic aneurysm. As you, dear reader, could imagine both Holmes and I were shocked to find that the perpetrator of the current crimes was not a copycat but no other than Jefferson Hope himself…."

"… _Rache_  is what he inscribed at Drebber's and Standerson's murder scenes. Revenge. The current victims: a member of parliament, a wealthy philanthropist, a streetboy, and a female university student had no connections with Hope or his long dead Lucy…"

"Holmes quickly deduced that Hope was being paid for this crimes. In the intervening years between Lucy's death and the present day, Hope fathered two children. With Hope's time running out, he was determined to gather enough money to make their lives comfortable…"

"…only in his final moments did Hope give the name of his benefactor: Moriarty. Who this Moriarty is and what he wants remains a mystery…"

-Excerpts from "A Study in Pink" from _Mysteries and Crime: Or Adventures of a Detective and a Doctor_ by Ormond Sacker (Dr. John H Watson)

* * *

 

4 September 1879

As long as Molly Holmes could remember, the numerous and ever changing rules of how a lady should and should not behave were drilled into her head. As a child, infractions were dealt with swiftly and accompanied by long tedious lectures regarding her unacceptable behavior.

One of the cardinal rules was that a lady should not exhibit any negative emotions, to always remain tranquil. While she didn't devote herself to axioms, Molly did strive to remain level headed and rational. Usually she succeeded quite well.

Except for now.

"Holmes!" Molly marched down the hall, a magazine crumbled up in her hand. Pages bobbed behind her like a bird, only connected to the rest of the sheets by the tiniest bit of paper.

She didn't even pause when she reached the door to her husband's office, preferring to throw it open with enough force that the heavy wood boomeranged from the wall. Sherlock was sat behind his desk, his eyebrows arched so high as to nearly blend in with his curls. The pen in his hand dripped ink onto his notebook as it hovered above the sheet, its descent halted by its owner's shock.

"What in heaven's name is this?" Molly held up the crumbled magazine high so that her husband would know exactly what she was talking about. He had a habit of obfuscating for time and Molly was not in the mood to humor him or allow him the opportunity to think of a lie.

"It would appear to be a magazine, Mrs. Holmes." Sherlock placed his pen down and leaned back in his chair, resting his threaded fingers on his stomach. His lips twitched with barely concealed amusement.

" _Ob-_ viously," Molly snarled. "It's the  _Strand Magazine_ to be exact."

"Ah hell," Sherlock muttered, closing his eyes.

"'Ah hell,' is right! Imagine my surprise when I flipped through this and discovered a  _new_  story from Ormond Sacker. 'Oh,' I thought, 'how lovely! My husband has been remarkably tight lipped about how the  _Study in Pink_  case unraveled. Hopefully Dr. Watson's story will shed some light.'"

"Molly-" Sherlock tried to interrupt but Molly would not be stopped.

"Some of the details I was quite familiar with, having listened to you mull them over for months. But there was one detail that you kept from me, wasn't there?"

"Molly," Sherlock attempted again to no avail.

"Allow me to highlight which detail was most shocking to me, Mr. Holmes." Molly violently straightened the magazine with a snap. " ' 'Holmes!' I cried as I saw my dear friend slowly bring one of the cursed pills to his mouth. What if he had guessed wrong? There was no sick dog this time around!' Et cetera, et cetera. Ah, here 'But that is my good friend Holmes, risking his life to prove that he is clever.'" The last few words were almost spat out.

Sherlock stared at her, his nostrils flaring as he to keep his face neutral. "Why do you care? Why should it matter the risks I take?"

Molly was sure she looked a fright, her eyes bulging and her jaw slack with disbelief. "Wh-why? I'm your wife! What happens to you has a direct effect on me! Honestly, you shouldn't risk your life over such trivial nonsense."

Sherlock stood up quickly, sending his desk chair smashing into the wall. "My work is  _not_  trivial nonsense."

"It is when you risk your life just to prove yourself! There was no reason you couldn't have just waited to test the pill you chose."

"I already have a mother, Mrs. Holmes, and a housekeeper to supplement her nagging, I have no need to hear it from a wife I don't even want!"

Molly reeled back at his pronouncement, the magazine fluttering from her loose fingers to the floor. Molly stared at her husband for an indeterminable amount of time, her breath caught in her lungs.

"Well then," Molly said quietly. Her eyes began to burn with unshed tears. Molly blinked rapidly, trying to buy herself some time. She refused to let her husband see her cry. "Forgive me for bothering you with my  _nagging._  . I can assure you that the people in your life that do it do so out of caring for you and your well being. I'll make certain to refrain from doing so in the future."

Molly turned on her heel and walked quickly from the room, ignoring the loud thump of flesh on wood and whispered curses from her husband. It was stupid, really, to feel hurt. It's not as if he was lying or saying something that she had not already known. If nothing else, Sherlock had always been ruthlessly clear that he was not pleased with having to marry her.

A sentiment that she herself shared at the beginning of her marriage. Over the last few months, though, Molly had started to come to some peace with their marriage. They spoke more often about a variety of topics and actually sought each other out on occasion, no longer passing each other as if they were ships in the night.

Molly wiped away a stray tear with her fingers.

"Ma'am?"

"I'm going for a walk, Bentley," Molly grabbed her hat and dolman from the entryway cupboard. "I'll return shortly.

"I will ring for Thompson to accompany you."

"No, Thompson won't be needed. Thank you, Bentley." Molly quickly pinned her hat on before slipping into her dolman.

Bentley paused in his movements to ring for the footman, his face an ill concealed look of uncertainty.

"Thank you, Bentley," Molly repeated forcefully.

"Ma'am." Bentley slowly opened the front door as if delaying her departure would somehow cause her to change her mind.

Molly swept past him as soon as the door was open wide enough to accommodate her. She stood on the stoop for a moment, breathing in the London air. The smell and taste of soot and dirt coated her mouth and throat. The beige air of a lingering peasouper stung her eyes, furthering obscuring the visibility of the surrounding city.

In retrospect, perhaps she should have stayed indoors where the air was somewhat easier to breathe.  _Too late now,_  Molly thought, her pride preventing her from returning so soon. The young woman straightened her hat purposefully, squared her shoulders and headed in the direction of nearby Regent's Park.

In the early days of her marriage, she used to wander the park, acclimating herself to her new neighborhood in a futile attempt of filling the hours of the day. But there were only so many times that one could walk in the park around Marylebone.

One day during one of her rather aimless wanderings, she came upon a perfect bench. It was under a great oak and was set far enough back from the well-trodden path that those passing by felt no need to acknowledge her presence but it was close enough that she was easily visible and she could not be molested without witnesses. It was one of her most favored reading and thinking spots. Compared to the gardens at Alderlay, Baker Street's was roughly the size of a postage stamp.

Molly brushed the bench perfunctorily of the detritus of leaves and acorns that had accumulated since it was last occupied before sitting down with an unladylike plop.

_Don't even want._

_Don't even want._

_Don't._ That was the part that stung. Present tense. As in still does not desire her presence in his life. Molly ran her fingers over the ruffles accents on her skirt. Molly was well aware that the beginning of their marriage was founded on a mutual distaste of the very idea of each other. She just supposed that after assisting her husband in his work and having the occasional meal with him, he would grow somewhat fond of her. If not as his wife, at least as a companion or even a friend. She certainly was growing rather attached to him and found his antics more amusing now than irritating. In fact, many of eccentricities just endeared him more to her.

Perhaps it was naïve of her to assume that her husband had felt anything similar. After all, this is the man that only claimed to have one friend and vocally scorned sentiment. It was clear that she was still a burden weighing him down.

The sound of laughter broke through her dark thoughts, drawing her attention. The source was a young couple on the nearby path. The woman was being playfully chased by her companion, presumably a suitor or husband, eliciting shrieks of laughter.

It was highly inappropriate. Even gauche.

It was also feed the seed of bitterness she tried so hard to keep from sprouting. That woman was wanted and loved. She and her bright-eyed companion had a bright, happy future ahead of them. A future that they look forward to, a future they want to spend with each other.

And here she was, sitting alone on a park bench watching them like some sort of voyeur of their happiness. The brooding unwanted wife of a mercurial eccentric.

The metallic taste of blood blossomed on her tongue as Molly bit her lip, trying to keep herself from sobbing like a character in one of her gothic novels. She sniffed nosily and swallowed the lump in her throat.

She longed to indulge in cathartic cry. To cry for being on burden to a husband who has no affinity for her. Cry for her increasingly bleak and lonely future.

"You're being a ninny," Molly scolded herself, wiping away a tear that seemed so desperate to escape. Thank goodness no one else would be witness to her rather embarrassing actions. "If a distant husband is the worst thing in your life, you should count yourself blessed." She tugged at her skirts, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "So your future is not how you pictured it would be, no reason to be a watering pot. Besides, he hasn't murdered you so he isn't the worst husband there is."

It vaguely occurred to her that saying her husband has yet to murder her was probably not the highest of bars to set to what constituted a decent husband.

A drop of water landed on her skirt and bloomed, darkening the gray fabric to the color of soot. Molly touched her cheek, confused. Another gray spot blossomed on her skirt followed by two more. She looked up through the branches and leaves to see dark clouds, saturated with water.

"Oh  _hell._ "

* * *

 

"You go and find that girl right now!" Mrs. Hudson demanded of her employer, arms akimbo.

"I see no reason to do so. Mrs. Holmes  _clearly_ wishes to be alone, my joining her would quite defeat the purpose of her leaving." Sherlock carefully packed his pipe with tobacco. The brief encounter with his wife had left him gasping for a pipe. It would help calm himself and allow him to think.

Sherlock knew what people thought of him, and agreed with them mostly, but he honestly did not like making people cry who were undeserving or at least without having an alternative reason to make them cry. Especially his wife. He always felt about two inches tall when he distressed her, even when it was not his own fault.

He just absolutely hated when she became worked up over his cases. It didn't happen too often but when it did she would lose all appetite and barely even sleep until the case was concluded.

If Molly knew some of the more dangerous details, the risks he took in his deductions he feared that her nerves would only worsen.

While his wife was made of sterner stuff than most women of his acquaintance, there were some things that no lady should have knowledge of. He certainly wasn't going to be the one to expose her to the seedier parts of the world.

"It looks like it's going to rain," Mrs. Hudson protested, shooing at his feet propped up on his desk.

"We live in London, my dear housekeeper, it  _always_  looks as if it is going to rain. Stop that." He brushed Mrs. Hudson's hands away from his feet. If he wanted to put his feet on  _his_ desk in  _his_ house than by God he will. "For a servant, you are not very good at being subservient."

The housekeeper let out a short scornful laugh. "I've changed your diapers, pushed your pram, and chased monsters from your wardrobe. You must be mad to think I am going to be deferential to you. That's why you hired me."

Sherlock twisted his face into a dark scowl in order to hide the smile that tugged at his lips.

It was exactly why he hired her.

"Now take that horrid smelling thing out of your mouth and go find your wife!"

Not a second after she finished speaking, the tell tale  _plip-plip_  of rain hit the window before blurring together to create a long continuous noise as if to emphasize her point.

"Fine! But if she is foolish enough to be out in the rain then-"

"Now!"

His teeth clicked together with the force of him closing his mouth. No one but Mrs. Hudson and his mother could make him feel so like a child. Sherlock kicked his feet off the desk and used the momentum to pop out of his desk chair. "I'll expect a fresh pot of tea waiting for when I return."

* * *

 

Molly wrapped her arms tighter around herself as she waited for a break in the traffic to cross the street. In a way she was a bit relieved that it was raining for the rain sent all the cross sweepers scrambling for cover. Occasionally the cross sweepers became hostile if they thought her gratuity too small and since she had left her purse at Baker Street…well at least one uncomfortable interaction was avoided today.

Seeing an opportunity to cross, Molly sprinted across the street, one hand on her hat and the other pulling up her skirts. Just before making it to the pavement, her path was obstructed by a river of rainwater. Throwing propriety to the wind, she leapt as far as she could, hoping that she could make it over the obstacle.

Her boot landed short of the pavement. Water flooded her boot and the splash of her landing soaked her stockings. Molly quickly pushed off her foot, propelling herself to the more accommodating cement footpath. With a quick shake of her shoe, she continued on to Baker Street her right foot squishing in her boot as she went. Molly wrapped her soaked dolman about herself closer and bowed her head, trying to protect her face from the stinging rain.

She had only managed to make it a few yards when she collided into a person. Molly let out a startled " _oh!_ " before babbling apologies. "Forgive me, I was not looking where I was-"

"Molly."

Her head flew up at the sound of her given name. "Sherlock?" The object of her collision was indeed her husband, wrapped in a long coat and looking far drier than she was at the moment. "What are you-"

"Looking for you, obviously." Sherlock grabbed her elbow and firmly escorted her down the street. Molly practically trotted at his side as she tried to keep up with his long strides. Annoyance tightened her jaw at his manhandling of her. She ripped her arm out of his grasp.

"I am quite capable of walking by myself thank you  _very_  much." And of finishing a sentence she added silently. She absolutely abhorred his habit of interrupting her sentences. Molly marched ahead of him with as much dignity as she could muster though she looked like she had tussled with a straining dyke and was thrashed quite soundly.

It was only a few yards to their front door and her husband stayed behind her, possibly humoring her sad display of independence. Molly pulled up her skirts as she stomped up the stairs, propriety be damned. The front door swung open before she could reach it.

Always prompt, that Bentley.

"Mrs. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," he greeted with his usual gravity. "May I take your outerwear?"

Molly whipped off her dolman before Bentley could attempt to help her. She bunched the sodden material into a ball and handed it to the butler. "Thank you. Send Annie upstairs and have some hot water sent up."

"Of course, ma'am."

Molly felt a twinge of guilt as she trudged upstairs at her curt tone. It wasn't like her to be so discourteous to the help. Well, she told herself, you do it so rarely they'll most likely forgive this slip.

"You could say 'thank you.'" Sherlock called behind her.

Molly whipped around, grabbing the banister as she nearly lost her footing. She flinched as a loose wet lock smacked her in the eye. "I  _beg_  your pardon?"

Was Sherlock Holmes preaching about manners?

"You could say 'thank you,'" he repeated. "I did after all go out in a storm to find you."

Molly's mouth dropped open. The cheek! Demanding thanks for a task she didn't ask of him nor wished him to do. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for braving a whole half block in the rain. I am sure doing a task that was unasked of you was quite onerous. I am forever in your debt." She nearly bit her lip with the ferocity she spat out the last few words. As soon as she finished, Molly quickly escaped up the stairs to her chambers. She had gotten the last word in, and she was not going to let him take that from her.

Cold comfort.

* * *

 

Molly did not often fall victim to foul moods. Whether by luck or simply her nature, she tended to be rather even keeled. On the rare occasions that it did occur, Molly simply retreated to her chambers, and if late enough in the day, retired for the evening. What her dark moods lacked in frequency, it made up for in severity. She became snappish, irritable, rude, impulsive, and occasionally even cruel. Isolating herself contained the damage, ensuring that only she had to endure the effects, not anyone else.

It was precisely this reason that at only a few hours past noon, Molly was in her nightclothes and dressing robe. After Annie, her lips pressed together so tightly at the damage Molly had wrought upon her gown that her mouth was hardly visible, helped her from her sodden clothes Molly gave herself quite possibly the fastest sponge bath in history. It was during her sponge bath, and the idea of having to redress that she made the decision to throw in the towel so to say and stay in her room. It wasn't as if she had any obligations to attend to.

After only an hour of being by herself, Molly came to the conclusion that it was the best decision she had made all day. No need to put on a good front for anyone, she could unleash her angst on the pages of her journal in peace. After filling several pages with handwriting that would give her childhood governess the vapors, Molly felt remarkably lighter.

Until she re-read what she wrote and found herself mortified at the melodrama filled pages.

One would think she was a character in one of those horrid Sarah Gorley novels her mother so enjoyed reading.

Molly was carefully ripping the pages from her journal, she had no desire to see this entry ever again, when she heard the squeak of hinges. Her head whipped around to look at the door to the hallway to see no one there. Which meant…

"You didn't knock." A statement so obvious that Molly grimaced the moment it came out of her mouth. Since their wedding nearly one year ago, Sherlock always knocked before coming through the door connecting their chambers, one of only a handful of manners that he consistently acted upon.

"I didn't want to take the chance that you would refuse to see me." Her husband stood there awkwardly in the doorway, his hands buried in the pockets of his royal blue smoking jacket.

Molly set her half mutilated journal aside. She was positive that Sherlock had already seen it but perhaps putting it out of sight would put it out of his mind.

"Yes?"

"I, uh,"

_Goodness was Sherlock actually at lost for words?_

"I believe I should apologize for my earlier words. It was not my intention to upset you." Sherlock focused his attention on straightening his cuff as he spoke. "Your...concern is not unappreciated."

Molly couldn't help but feel a bit disappointed. Of course Sherlock didn't understand what about his words upset her so. Silly of her, really, to think that he would. Her husband was not known for his ability to navigate anything related to sentiments. Foolish of her to think that he would be so proficient now.

At least he apologized. In the months she had spent with her husband she could count on the fingers of one hand how often she heard him apologize to anyone sincerely. He was trying, and given it was only a few hours after the event her husband probably didn't even consult Dr. Watson beforehand.

Molly pulled her feet up on the chair and wrapped her arms about her legs. She rested her head against her knees, looking at the fire dancing in its grate.

"Thank you. I should not have called your work trivial." Molly knew enough that insulting his work, even inadvertently was like poking a sleeping dragon when it came to her husband. "Did you need anything else?"

"Yes, I mean no. I wanted your opinion on a case."

"If you leave the pathology report on my desk, I will review it in the morning."

"There isn't a body."

Until that moment Molly didn't know it was possible to freeze when she was already still. She slowly turned her head to look at her husband who was rocking back and forth on his heels, his eyes fixed on some point on the ceiling. "I don't understand."

Her husband never asked her opinion on cases unless it involved a corpse or a body part.

"I need a sounding board."

"Mrs. Hudson took Billy again, didn't she?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Really should give that woman the sack."

Molly rolled her eyes. "We both know that's an empty threat."

The idea of Mrs. Hudson leaving Baker Street was like the idea of walking on the moon, absolutely ludicrous.

"So you need me to fill in for your skull?" She wasn't entirely sure if that was a compliment.

Sherlock threw himself onto the chair across from hers. "No. No, you're being you. Interesting one really, man claims his bride is a vampire…"

* * *

 

10 September 1879

Sherlock was very close to committing himself to Bedlam. It was his weekly meeting with John to review private cases that had been sent their way. One of his favorite times of the week as it usually offered up at least one half decent case.

Only now instead of it being a working meeting, it had become a social gathering where Watson, Mrs. Watson, and his wife would eat and eat only to stop eating so that they can blather on about something completely inconsequential such as-good God, were they talking about lights?

"They're saying it will look like artificial sunshine," Mary said, reading from the newspaper.

"That sounds completely ridiculous," Molly scorned.

"I agree. Well, we'll see what happens in the next week or so. I suspect it's a much to do about nothing." Mary folded up the newspaper and set it aside. "I think Sherlock is going to have a fit of apoplexy if we don't allow him and John to discuss cases."

Watson let out a dramatic sigh. Horribly done, really. Good thing he was a doctor for he was not meant for West End. "I suppose we should begin." Watson pulled the door, calling Bentley.

"Tell me, Mary, how are you feeling?"

"Oh as good as can be expected…"

Sherlock tuned out the women's conversation, anxious for John's satchel to arrive. He couldn't care less about the impending expansion to the Watson family.

A lie really. He did care. He was still annoyed that Watson wouldn't let him track Mary's pregnancy.

The man said that if Sherlock wanted to do such a ridiculous thing as examining a pregnant woman's urine and vomit and measuring her body, he should impregnate his own wife.

Sherlock had to admit, for a moment the idea was extremely tempting.

"Finally!" Sherlock exclaimed, as Bentley entered the room, carrying the bag full of possible cases. He quickly took the bag from the butler and dumped the contents out on the floor by the fire.

"Those were sorted!" Watson cuffed his much taller friend on the ear.

"Your sorting does more harm than good." Sherlock rubbed his throbbing ear, crouching down to glance through the papers.

"I sorted them," Mary cut in.

Sherlock paused in his paper rifling. His lip curled up at best friend's wife's remark. She was actually quite good at picking up pertinent details and knowing which cases would be the most interesting. If he'd know that before, he wouldn't have dumped out the papers as he did.

Sherlock made sure to store that bit of knowledge in his mind palace for easy access. "Apologies Mary," he murmured.

Mary waved her hand. Her lips were pressed tightly together in an attempt to hide her smile. Clearly she was amused at his error. "There was nothing truly earth shattering this week. Though I must say, I never took you for a classist."

Sherlock turned in his crouch and raised an eyebrow at the teasing women.

"I sorted all your unsolved cases as well and there were quite a number of cases where the suspects were of means yet you couldn't seem to find evidence." Mary paused for a moment to take a sip of her tea. "Or perhaps the rich are better at committing crimes. What do you think, Molly?"

Sherlock scowled at his friend's wife. She couldn't really think that he would cover up someone's crime because they were of the upper classes. Sherlock had spent more than his fair share of time with the beau monde and if anything it has made him even more eager to see them knocked down a peg or two. They were absolutely tedious.

However, the blonde woman did have a point. Many of the cases where his primary suspect was well heeled he just could  _not_ seem to find enough evidence of their culpability. Few magistrates were willing to prosecute any of London's wealthy or elite unless the evidence was nigh irrefutable.

Most still didn't believe in his methods. He showed them that Monkford's blood was once frozen, indicating that he was not dead as his rider-less horse suggested. The wife was the key. She would have been an easy nut to crack, already so sloppy with her words. However, no one was willing to bring fraud charges against a 'grieving widow' of a wealthy but indebted banker.

A grieving widow who soon, too soon to have made all the arrangements necessary, left for South America, pockets heavy with her husband's life insurance money. But no one from the Home Office was going to spend the resources-, wait. Resources. Resources.

"Resources!" Sherlock shouted.

The other members of the lounge stared at him incomprehensibly.

"What are you on about, Holmes?"

"Resources!" He repeated. Sherlock began throwing the papers on the floor about, looking for the current list of unsolved cases that John made sure to keep updated. The detective ignored Watson's cry of panic as the doctor attempted to keep the papers well away from the fire grate. "Of course. Of course! Monkford, Middleton, Wenceslas! They're all rich. Or their crimes made them very, very rich."

"Yes but Mr. Holmes what is your point?" Sherlock saw his wife slowly set down her cup of tea as if she was trying not to startle a wild animal.

Sherlock ignored her. "John! Go home and fetch the unsolved case notes-"

"Honestly, Holmes! At this hour?"

Sherlock barreled on, ignoring his friend. "Molly, any notes that you have on unsolved cases. Actually, a _ny_  notes you have bring them to my study."

Why were they all staring at him fish eyed? "Move people! Move!"

Sherlock ran from the room to his study, this was going to be fascinating, he just knew it.

* * *

 

Sherlock's office was never tidy but rarely did he let it get to such a state. Papers were everywhere. The desk, the chairs, the bookshelves, the floor, dangerously close to the fireplace. A tower of precariously stacked notebooks balanced on the mantle place, next to his skull. The landscape that usually collected dust on the wall was on the floor, its wall commandeered for papers, strings and pushpins.

Every unsolved case he or Watson had investigated in the past three years were on his wall waiting to be picked apart.

"Are you going to elaborate on what you are doing so that we may assist or do you just desire an audience?" Mary asked, her lap overflowing with newspapers she had displaced in order to occupy the sofa.

Sherlock bit back a retort. She had become much more volatile since she started growing a human and liable to unexpected reactions. "Resources, my dear Mrs. Watson is everything." Sherlock ripped a case off the wall. Suspect way too poor. "If you're a silk stocking, you pay people to clean your houses, fix your food, dress you. Might as well pay someone to plan your crimes."

"Bit rich from you Holmes," Watson cut in, his lip curling out from under his horrific mustache. Really, how Mary still lets him have that thing on his face is quite beyond him. "Considering you're part of that class you just mocked."

"But I would never let anyone else plan my crimes."

Molly hands flew to her face to try and smother her snort. "Sorry," she muttered.

"Point is, these people are rich and I know for a fact that most of them are not bright enough to would stump me."

"Humble," Watson said under his breath.

Sherlock continued, "therefore there must be some sort of connection. We need to-re-examine the cases with suspects who were rich before the crime or became rich as a result of the crime. Not just our cases. Anybody who recently had a suspicious windfall should be suspect."

"How about Henry Matthews?" Mary suggested.

"Who?" Sherlock questioned.

"Henry Matthews." Mary held up the newspaper she was perusing. "Recently nominated to Home Secretary after Bryan Davenport died."

"The MP from the Pink case?" Molly asked.

"I would assume so."

"But that was solved, we know who did it." John said, leaning against the desk.

"Oh. Very good point." Mary shrugged and tossed the newspaper aside.

"No."

Everyone turned to look at Sherlock.

"No. The case was solved but it wasn't. Why did Hope kill those people? They weren't connected with his revenge on Lucy. Did he even pick the targets or were the targets picked for him? Bit too lucky on his part if he chose them at random. No-no someone probably picked them for him. Two birds, one stone so to speak. One killer and multiple crimes, no one would ever look too closely at a death if it was a serial killer. No need to see who would stand to gain from their death, no need to find motive. Sloppy, sloppy, SLOPPY!"

Sherlock began pacing. If he didn't burn off some of the energy coursing through his body he was going to explode. "Brilliant, truly brilliant. What a convenient tool. A known killer with nothing to lose, dying does that to you so I've been told. But he had much to gain; money for his children. Oh sentiment! You are the downfall of so many. Were all the victims chosen or just some? There must have been an orchestrator, a leader…"

"Or a benefactor-" Watson chimed in; his eyes alight.

"Moriarty." The detective and the doctor said in unison, shooting each other a wide grin.

"Who's Moriarty?" Molly asked, perching on the arm of Mary's sofa.

A smile slowly blossomed as the possibility of what Sherlock uncovered began to sink in. "I have no idea. Something new."

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look at that! Something resembling a plot!
> 
> Historical notes:
> 
> Henry Matthews was a Home Secretary in Victorian times. 99.99% he didn't have anyone murdered to clear the position though.


End file.
